Happiness Shared
by Amythe3lder
Summary: Part 6: "I'm unsure how to explain what I want. This sort of thing is woefully underrepresented in the etiquette guides." Molly is wise, Mycroft is worried, and Greg is willing.
1. Wind and Rain

This is part of a series, it will make much more sense if you read the first installment before you do this. They aren't very long, I'll wait.

As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts  
>Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms<br>"Winter Winds"-Mumford & Sons

* * *

><p>Molly was startled to hear a tap on the pane, and even more surprised when she looked out into the gloaming and saw Mycroft Holmes shivering in the late-winter wind on the top step of her fire escape. He waved at her, looking unsure and a little awkward beside her holly shrub in its planter. She smothered her giggle with one hand and flicked the latch before raising the lower sash. She had just told him that morning that her heart was for him, and had been astounded to learn that her love was reciprocated. After a quick visit to Baker Street, she had returned home to tuck herself in after a long day. Apparently, the day wasn't over. She knelt down and he stooped to meet her at the open window, between flower pots of pixie ivy and rosemary.<p>

"Say it again?" he asked, his voice soft with wonder, but a little embarrassed.

A smile lit her face and she poured her joy into her reply, "I love you."

Mycroft touched his fingers to his own upturned lips and then used them to tuck her hair behind her ear. She shifted the plants to the floor, beckoned him in, and turned to go put the kettle on. When she returned, he said, "I can't stay long. I stopped by to say that I've arranged to meet with Gregory tomorrow evening. I could've called you, but you're on my way, and…"

"I wanted to see you, too. Tomorrow?"

He told her what time and where. "Will you come?"

Molly stepped back into the kitchen when the kettle whistled and she brought out the tea service. She set the tray on the low table in front of the couch before moving around the table to sit beside him, "Do you still take one sugar and quite a lot of milk?" At his nod, she fixed it for him, and addressed his earlier question as she passed it over. "If you want me to come with you, then I will. We do need to have a meeting between all three of us before anything can be settled. It doesn't have to be tomorrow, but if we're all going to be there, then we may as well get it done."

He hesitated a moment, then reached across and deftly added two drops of honey and a bit of lemon to her teacup. He smiled shyly when she looked at him in delight. _He remembered_.

"I'm unsure how to explain what I want," he said, and she smiled at the echo of her conversation with his brother just a couple of hours earlier. "This sort of thing is woefully underrepresented in the etiquette guides, and he will likely decline. I'd appreciate your company."

"Then yes, Mycroft. After all, you checked to see when I was available, didn't you? You don't need to hack my tablet or make secret inquiries; you can just ask me when I'm free."

Caught, he nodded, "I confess myself to be completely out of my depth with this, as well. All of it, in fact."

"How so?"

He sipped his tea and thought. "For one thing, I've never had anyone remember how I take my tea without being paid, and still recall it after so many intervening years. More broadly, I can't claim any prior romantic relationships."

"What, not ever? But you have been… _involved with_ people?"

He cleared his throat, "Not so you'd notice. I've had sex, Molly. If, at any time, it threatened to become more than that, I ended it. Quickly. Until this arrangement with Greg, and then it took me a while to realise the danger. It still seemed manageable because he was always technically married, even though he and his wife were frequently separated. When his divorce was finalised, I knew that I should end it, but I somehow kept finding excuses not to." He took another sip.

"You were never in love with anyone before?"

"There was a young lady at university, but she was several years older than I was, and it would have been folly to reveal my feelings. I asked to borrow a pencil once, and I had the honour of proofreading an essay of hers on the evolution of our understanding of the celestial movements. That was the most interaction we had. After what happened with our older brother, I decided it was best to avoid emotional attachments of that sort."

"What changed? I mean, well, why now?"

"I suppose because now is when you decided to speak up. You were very brave. I wish _I_ had been. Until this morning, I believed you were in love with Sherlock, and all the evidence seemed to support that. Your former fiancé even looked like my brother."

"That was actually a shock, once I noticed the resemblance. Tom kept his hair quite long when I first met him, but he had to cut it for work. By then, he just looked like himself to me, but with shorter hair." She shrugged. "Anyway, aesthetics is certainly where the similarity ends."

"Oh?"

"Ask Greg sometime if 'meat dagger' means anything to him. You missed an interesting wedding reception. Tom was nice. An odd one, but still a bit too domesticated- too _normal_- to keep up, if you get my meaning."

Mycroft looked down at where Molly's feet were warm in fanged bunny slippers that appeared to have been inspired by the killer rabbit in _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. "I think I do. I know you tended to Sherlock after he returned to London; am I correct in my new estimation that your current sleeping arrangement with him is, in some way, an extension of that?"

"You know better than I do what happened to him while he was away. We didn't talk very much about it, but I am a pathologist, Mycroft, I know how to read a story from wounds. He was captive for a while, wasn't he?"

The elder Holmes brother let some of his frustration show. "I don't know how to get him to talk to me."

"Maybe you need to ask the right questions." Seeing his puzzled look, she explained about Thursdays. "So you see," she concluded, "I've become a counsellor, of a sort, and also a teddy bear."

He confided, "When Sherlock had nightmares as a little boy, I'd wake up being chased out of my own bed."

Molly exclaimed, "He has such cold toes!" and they laughed themselves breathless. Laughter transformed him, and she resolved to make Mycroft Holmes laugh as often as she could.

Before they had recovered their air, she leaned over to his side of the sofa and kissed him, tumbling smoothly from one dizziness into another. She let her lips part slightly against his, and he jolted when her tongue slipped out for an instant to run along the seam of his mouth, tasted the cream tea on his bottom lip. He moaned once, low and quiet, and she pulled back enough to meet his gaze.

The memory of the heat in his eyes kept her warm in her bed as she fell asleep.

* * *

><p>When Greg left work, he stayed on Broadway past where he would normally turn to get the Tube, and headed to St. James' Park. It was only a ten minute stroll to where he'd arranged to meet Mycroft by the lakeside, but he thought he could shave a couple of minutes off if he picked his feet up. It was a bit slick from the light rain that had fallen earlier, but he broke into a steady jog with the ease of a man who knew his path.<p>

As he planted his steps, he considered. The younger man had sounded almost nervous when he'd called Greg at lunchtime the day before, and it wasn't that long since the last time they'd been alone with each other. The little party at Baker Street on Saturday notwithstanding, they had barely glimpsed each other since mid-December, but that wasn't unusual for them. Oh, he wished... but when it came down to it, he knew he'd gladly take whatever he could get with Mycroft.

And it seemed this was all he could get, so he sped up just a bit more and made it to the tree by the lake just as the skies opened up again. He stopped fighting with his pocket brolly when he heard a familiar voice say, "Greg? We can share mine, if you like." He looked up to see Molly Hooper a few yards away. The kind-hearted morgue attendant came over and his brain skidded to a stop. Either this was a strange chance meeting, or far more likely when one was dealing with a Holmes, they were both there to see the same man. His suspicions were confirmed when they spotted the government agent and Molly waved like she had been expecting him.

"I was held back a bit, and then I got caught in this downpour," he explained, holding his own wide umbrella over the trio.

"What's the matter; is it Sherlock?" Greg asked jumping to the common denominator.

The two shook their heads and exchanged a glance, and then Molly spoke, "When I said I'd never fancied Sherlock? Genetically, you weren't far off the mark." She bit her lip and glanced up at Mycroft and he knew.

No, worse than that, he _understood_. It was a source of perpetual awe for him these days that the whole world wasn't at least a little in love with Mycroft Holmes. "Oh! Well, that's great, congrats," he said with forced cheer. He felt sick, but was determined not to show it.

Mycroft started out, "Gregory, wait," and he realised that Molly had some idea that the two men were once... whatever they had been, or else why would they be telling him together? Best get it all over, he thought, and then he stopped thinking as the tall man took his hand and said, "You are, of course, in no way obligated to even entertain this." Mycroft stared down at their joined hands and murmured, "I know we were never supposed to develop feelings of attachment... but I have done. If you want my regard in a greater capacity than I have thus far felt welcome showing, and you'd be willing to share my affections, well. Molly thinks it could work, and she's got me half-convinced, too."

Greg blinked, and looked to the doctor, "This was your idea? Are you really sure you're okay with it?" He knew the bitterness of love gone wrong, but he had been ready to reconcile every time Anna had asked to try again. Now that he thought about it, if his ex-wife had come to him like this first, would he have minded so much?

"I know my own heart. Yes," Molly said with calm certainty.

He turned his face back to Mycroft, and grinned.

* * *

><p>In my head, the Shortest Exile Ever was around the New Year<br>**_Undertow_ **is set during the last few days of February  
><strong><em>Thursdays<em> **takes place in the few hours between **_Undertow_ **and _**Happiness Shared**_  
><strong><em>Rhythm<em> **is worked in at the end of March  
><strong><em>TicTac<em> **is Greg's birthday in mid-April

I have _**Happiness Shared**_ coming after _**TicTac**_, because it extends way past April.  
>And also, here are Molly's slippers: <span> product8148/?srp=29


	2. Gifts and Presence

There is love in your body but you can't get it out  
>It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth<br>"Hardest of Hearts"- Florence + The Machine

* * *

><p>Mycroft was searching for the word to describe this feeling. He could deliver orders, argue with heads of state, and reprimand Sherlock, but verbalising a sentiment was somehow beyond him and left him confounded as to why those particular phonemes were too oddly shaped to slip past his teeth. He drew the notebook out of his inner pocket and started dictating to his pen. It was easier to impose order on his emotions if he could see them made tangible by ink.<p>

_Relieved_, no, that was terribly narrow and was usually reserved for the fleeting sense of reassurance that washed over him when he woke in the morning and his charges (brother and country) were still stable and solvent despite all the dangers and oppositions, both from within and from without. He had not expected such a positive outcome to the evening, so he was experiencing relief, but that wasn't the whole of it.

_Hopeful_ was accurate for all three of them. Mycroft reviewed the conversation that had played out earlier. The London weather had made the setting for their discussion seem as intimate as the subject matter as they had stood together under his umbrella in the park, the sheets of rain a barrier between themselves and the few stragglers hurrying away towards shelter. Their little meeting had been brief, but Gregory's gameness and Molly's cheery presence had steadied him. He had remained unaware of the cuffs of his trousers wicking up rain until he'd been taking off his shoes in the entryway of his home. With the tip of his fountain pen, he cradled the word _hopeful_ between a set of parentheses.

_Content_ and even _pleased_ he dismissed as rather too mild.

_Happy_ was technically correct, but not quite right. It didn't seem deep enough to encompass everything.

_Delighted_ could fit. It had been a whirlwind couple of days with many encouraging revelations. He sketched an exclamation point after it for emphasis.

_Joyful_ was a bit extreme. He still harboured a nagging doubt as to the practical application of such a scheme. His time was limited, but the more he considered his schedule, the more he realised that he was the one who had made himself so constantly unavailable for anything resembling a social interaction. He had filled his spare time with more work until all of his waking hours looked like the view from his desk, but that could change, and perhaps it should. He'd left his office at a reasonable hour two days in a row now, and after starting late yesterday. _People will talk_, he thought, and winced at the idea. He really must ease off, but slowly, so that no one noticed and looked closer. His position was unique and not hemmed in by the structure of normal business hours, as things were typically well in hand in his own time zone. Most events unfolded as they ought to without his interference due to his delegating certain minor tasks, so maybe he could eventually cap it off at eight hours per day. Maintaining two secret romances should be simple enough; none of his workmates (save Anthea, she would know) or adversaries would expect it of him, and they were the people he was most determined to keep it from. He had legitimate cause to confer with Molly and Greg from time to time, whether professionally or regarding his brother, but it still might prove challenging (and therefore even more enjoyable) to step out with either of them in such a way that would appear innocuous or could be easily explained if they were inadvertently witnessed by someone he knew.

On second thought...

He tapped his pen against the page where he had written _joyful_ and added a qualifier. Then he brought forth the memory of the feel of Greg's hand warm in his and Molly's mouth the previous evening.

Below _joyful: cautiously_, he wrote _excited_ and carefully underlined it.

* * *

><p>The rest of the week was a rosy haze for Molly as she floated through her routine. The day after the meeting in the park was Friday- and her birthday- and she got a call from her uncle and received her first gift from Mycroft Holmes. A plant with tiny purple flowers and silvery green leaves was waiting on her desk next to her stack of cases when she arrived at work. There was a card in a sealed envelope under the red earthenware pot. It read: <em>Sage- wisdom, esteem, health. I noticed that you hadn't any, and under the circumstances, I must remedy that promptly. Best wishes, many happy returns, and my fondest devotion. <em>She didn't wonder how he'd known the significance of the date. He was a Holmes. The little sage plant smelled lovely and it spent all weekend coveting her gaze from its place of honour on the window-sill in her kitchen.

On Monday morning, she heard a text coming in over the sound of Cat Stevens singing "Moonshadow" on her headphones. She was on the steps heading down to catch the tube, bound for work. The pathologist boarded her train and adjusted the volume of her music to cover the noise of the rails and the other passengers, and as usual, it required some amount of focus to resist her natural urge to sing along. She opened the text.

[I have an idea about how to dispose of John's bed. SH]

[Which is? You're not going to set it on fire, are you?] She swayed slightly with the motion of the train car.

The next message came awfully quick. [No. SH]

[You considered it. Don't lie.]

[I may have done, yes. There's a need at the homeless shelter. SH]

Sadly, there always was more demand than supply. She typed with her thumb as she prepared to disembark at the next stop. [Better plan. Did you talk to Cassie about making a donation?]

[She'll be over after lunch. She's bringing extra hands and a truck big enough to remove an obstacle from my life. SH]

[Tell her hi from me.] Cassie had been her first contact in her mission to keep Sherlock alive long ago. When she'd spotted her- a skinny, bedraggled teen sleeping rough beside a bin- she'd slipped her a picture of Sherlock and a twenty–pound note, both provided by Mycroft. On the back of the photo, she'd written the young junkie's name and numbers where she and his older brother could be reached. Then she'd taken a closer look at the kid, seen how pale and scrawny she was, and the young doctor had bit her lip and sighed. She'd passed the girl another twenty and told her if she'd promise to show the picture around, she could use Molly's shower and pantry whenever she needed to. The young runaway had only nodded mutely, but she'd slept on Molly's couch when it had snowed the following month, and Cassie had saved Sherlock's life one night by making a well-timed phone call. Now, nine years on, she was helping out at the local shelter in between shifts at the bookshop on Bell Street.

[I will. I saw Mycroft yesterday. He brought a baby blanket. What have you done to him? SH]

[Are you complaining?]

[Elanor goes through clean blankets with an alarming frequency, so more of those will be useful. SH]

[Then I'm glad he thought to give her another one, but I don't think his actions are down to me.]

[Neither do I, especially. That isn't what I'm blaming you for. My brother was smiling. SH]

So was Molly, now. Through her earbuds, she heard the opening chords of "Life in Technicolor," and then Coldplay started singing about feet that wouldn't touch the ground. As she walked towards St. Bart's Hospital, she knew just how that felt.


	3. Decisions

And just because I call you up  
>Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made<br>"I'm Not in Love"- 10cc

There's a bit of sex at the end. Just a bit. Be aware.

* * *

><p>Gregory Lestrade tried very hard not to think about his personal life while he was on the clock. A fellow civil servant, Mycroft was careful only to call him when he knew Greg was on a break or at home; in turn, the detective inspector strove to take breaks at regular intervals to make it easier to predict. He found an accidental benefit of this pattern was that he worked better with a few short breaks dividing up the day. <em>Funny thing<em>, he considered, _that this connection with Mycroft made me a more effective copper for all the wrong reasons_.

Because he had a case, he worked right through the weekend and he solved it and made the arrests just before lunch on Monday. His supervisor told him to get himself home once the paperwork was finished, and take a day. That was how Greg came to be sitting in his chilly flat on Monday evening, staring at a blank sheet of printer paper and thinking.

He had originally wanted to be a police sketch artist. He'd had an opportunity to work with a description of a mugger the summer before he went to university, because the victim had lived on his street, and she'd asked for him. At the time, he had easily visualised the attacker, but he'd been disappointed over how it came out when he put his pencil to the pad.

Two nights later, he'd spotted the guy leaving a club. Greg had recognised him from the details of the lady's description. He'd averted another mugging and called the Metropolitan Police, and his friend had made a positive ID which became further confirmed when the warrant was served and her purse was found in the man's flat. The cops had found a crook, his neighbour had found closure, and Greg had found his calling. He enjoyed detective work more than he would have ever guessed he might, but he kept drawing as a hobby and a useful tool for clearing his head.

Sometimes, like now, he didn't even need to draw. It was enough to rest his eyes on the paper and use the solid blank plane as a backdrop to the images in his head. His mind wandered over the odd turn his life had taken.

The whole situation had started years ago because he'd made three poor choices. First, he'd let things get seriously out of hand with a suspect, and blood had been spilled. Once the injured officer had been out of surgery and out of the woods, he'd made his second mistake by heading to the pub instead of going back to the hotel where he was staying while another man slept next to his wife. He was never clear on whether his evening had been redeemed or if he'd only managed to damn himself thrice, but he could never bring himself to truly regret his next move: his third bad call had been to Mycroft Holmes.

It had been one of the latest cards to go into his wallet and the first one he'd pulled out that hadn't been the number of a co-worker that would hold his state against him later. With the amount of guilt he was under, he didn't think he was up for that anyway. Ringing Holmes was actually worse, but he'd already poured what should have been cab fare down his throat. Mycroft had looked so tired when he spotted him that Greg had kicked himself for not realising that he had a brother on drugs and probably was far too familiar with the current scenario. All the same, and perhaps because of his experiences with Sherlock, Mycroft had stayed with him all the way to his room. He could remember- with no small measure of embarrassment- making a pass at the younger man as he'd struggled to unlock the door while holding Greg upright. Mycroft had rebuffed the drunk copper's advances and wearily put together a sandwich from the fixings Greg had kept in his tiny refrigerator, and admonished him to put something other than whiskey in his stomach as he passed it over. He had gone to leave, then stopped and spoke without turning back to look at him. "Gregory, if you can recollect any of this in the morning, try again."

Greg had woken up with an aching head and total recall in his sobriety and spent hours waffling before he'd finally called and said, "I remember."

* * *

><p>Mycroft decided that he should allow Greg and Molly a little time to process, and immediately changed his mind. <em>What if they come to their senses, and I lose this opportunity?<em>

Then he thought better of that, knowing it was selfish of him to deny them the chance to get some distance and ponder their positions.

_But I _am_ selfish, and they should figure that out now if they haven't already_. He reached for his phone, then brought his hand back and stared down and his empty palms for a moment. No, he really ought to wait.

He wasn't going to, though. He picked up his mobile and rang Gregory before his more reasonable self could get another word in edgewise.

Greg had the next day off, Mycroft knew, since he'd just wrapped up a big investigation. The older man answered before the second ring and, sounding relieved, agreed to meet Mycroft in an hour.

Mycroft had put thought into where the most suitable place for assignations would be. Nice hotels kept records, and even if they didn't or they could be wiped, many of the finer establishments knew him on sight. There was no truly reliable way to delete the memories of the staff. He was unwilling to take either of his romantic interests to bed or even converse with them in less well-appointed places. He couldn't offer them very much time (as things were at the moment), but he could ensure that they conducted the affairs of their affairs in pleasant surroundings. At any rate, hotels meant something else entirely to him. So Mycroft arrived at the obvious conclusion that, while public parks were fine for quiet chats and the like, certain activities must necessarily remain private, and the safest place he knew was his house.

Here, he could completely control the security; he had sole access to the video feed of his personal cameras and could delete the records with impunity. His staff had been vetted (by him) for their skills as well as their total discretion and had been asked to sign the Official Secrets Act as a condition of their employment in his home where all manner of things might be overheard. He would prefer (for the sake of simplicity, and not because it added an intriguing layer of risk) that his housekeeper, cook, and gardener remain in the dark about his relationship status along with everyone else who may have questionable loyalties or merely inconvenient opinions. That should be effortlessly manageable in this environment. For these reasons, his property was ideal. His decision had nothing to do with being attached to his house. Though he certainly was.

Mycroft's mind was not a palace. It was his home, and he lived there.

Home had been many places over the years of his life, and each locale held the memories of the time frame represented. For him, the mnemonic devices inherent to the method mostly functioned on emotional triggers, a fact he had never revealed and had been deeply bothered by when he first began construction as a child. Once he realised that his disturbance over the sentimental nature of his own memory was far more of a problem than the issue itself, he had calmed down and accepted the fact of his feelings rather than let his denial hold him back. After all, just because it was true, didn't mean anyone else needed to know. Mycroft did not merely bury his heart; he hid any indication that he _had_ one.

His earliest memories were of his parents' home, and he kept his childhood there. He visited his brothers as children when the actual version of a sibling was too troublesome to share airspace with. This had been invaluable while Sherlock spiralled into the drug problem that had nearly cost him his life. When the addict was being especially trying and Mycroft was tempted to simply step back and let him destroy himself in whatever way he liked, he would plod down the hallway of his mental house and knock on Sherlock's door. In his favourite memories, they were both very young. Mycroft would count his baby brother's dimpled fingers out loud with him and tell him about Beowulf slaying Grendel, how Marie Curie discovered radium, and why Bilbo spared Gollum in the cavern. Mycroft's role in Sherlock's eventual recovery had earned further bile from him, so their relationship had improved little since those terrible days. Nonetheless, the denizens of Baker Street were nestled comfortably in a model of his brother's sitting room.

He stored most of his higher learning in a section that was a comfortable mix of his dormitory and the library at university. His necessary (and therefore unpleasant) social connections, he kept in the Diogenes Club, where he wouldn't be forced to hear them speak. His workmates lived in his office at Downing Street.

Besides staff, the only people who had taken up residence in his current house were Gregory and Molly. They had moved in without his leave years ago. Greg belonged in the furnished attic with its skylights and bay windows and dark oak floorboards making echoes in the open space; he was typically settled atop Mycroft's eiderdown quilt where it lay spread on the floor. Molly had only stood in his back garden once, so long ago that it may have been a dream, but he could usually find her there. If she ventured inside, she was always near a window and bathed in sunshine.

It should have been disorientating, walking the footboards of a mental structure while simultaneously sitting in the same room on the physical plane. It managed to be powerfully soothing instead: he was doubly present when he was in the same place in his mind and his body. He felt most comfortable at home, so he made a home of everywhere he spent any length of time.

Gregory arrived after only forty-one minutes and made as if to wait outside. Mycroft spotted him through the front window and knew the other man was being mindful of the politician's insistence on precision and also trying not to seem as eager as they both were. Mycroft shook his head and hit the call button on his mobile as he headed for the front door. When the copper saw who was ringing him, he looked across the street at the house and saw the younger man, now framed by the light in the open doorway, waving him over. The gate unlocked as Greg reached it, and latched closed behind him. He jogged up the front porch steps, silver hair still damp from the shower, and they went inside.

Matters progressed as all things normally did with Greg: swiftly. Clothes were removed and discarded in the hurry to be naked and pressed against one another. Mycroft waited until he had Gregory pinned beneath his hands and between his thighs, the wiry older man fully seated inside him, before he took what he'd wanted almost as soon as he'd made the rule against it. ("That's not what this _is_, Gregory," he'd snorted derisively the only time the other man had tried it.) He leaned over and quickly pressed his lips to Greg's, and then he sat back and held his breath, waiting anxiously for a reaction. The detective inspector rolled his eyes.

"Myc, if you wanted a kiss, you didn't need to hold me down first. You could've done that at anytime. In fact-" he wrapped a hand around the back of Mycroft's neck and pulled him down to claim his mouth.


	4. Meetings

**TW**: This chapter contains a recounting of past violence toward a trans character, and risky behavior by a drug user. Take care.  
>Also, a big thank you to my beta, Cornishrexmomma! Go follow her on tumblr, if you tumbl.<p>

Don't hold a glass over the flame  
>Don't let your heart grow cold<br>I will call you by name  
>I will share your road<br>"Hopeless Wanderer"- Mumford & Sons

* * *

><p>If not for the regular lack of Gregory, Mycroft might have been able to carry on completely unaware that he had fallen for the inspector. Loving Greg was like reading a favourite novel outside, until at midnight you realised you hadn't been able to see anything for hours, but you knew the story so well that you hadn't noticed. Mycroft had never been able to pin down when he'd become aware of his feelings for the man, because the knowledge had spent so long in the borderlands of his thoughts.<p>

His other love was a sudden flame in the darkness, like the striking of a match; Mycroft knew exactly when he'd fallen in love with Molly Hooper. He had felt it happening in that moment and been powerless to stop it. He had tried desperately to ignore the way the world seemed to tilt around her until- between one breath and the next- he found that he was turning on her axis.

It hadn't happened the first time he met her, but she still certainly managed to impress him. She climbed into his car and greeted him with a wide-eyed nod and, "Good afternoon, then." His teeth clicked as he snapped his jaw closed to keep it from dropping open. His brow furrowed. He sat with his notebook open in front of him where it was intended to look menacing. (He had nothing but her name written on the page, in truth, but seeming to have the particulars of a quarry's life written down had more effect than revealing that he simply knew everything.)

He recovered and scrambled for the strategic high ground. "Good afternoon, Miss Hooper."

"I'm _Doctor_ Hooper, in point of fact," she said as she looked around, absently pulling on her seatbelt as the car started moving. She finally looked at him again, dark brown eyes searching his for half a second. She tugged off a colourful knitted glove, and reached over to offer her hand.

Mycroft wondered then whether she realised that she was currently acting as the subject of an abduction. He looked at her small outstretched hand, knew that he'd been beaten, and honestly couldn't think of anything to be gained from rudeness.

She continued as they shook hello, "But I suspect you already know that. Is this about Sherlock? You cannot be his father; you're much too young. Brother?"

Mycroft was taken aback. He had seen her today on CCTV, awkwardly interacting with her peers and then meeting his brother, and was unsure why she had (thus far) failed to be ruffled by him. Then all at once, he figured her out: she was clumsy around people because she _believed_ she was, and no one had spared a moment to convince her otherwise. She had been so astonished by the audacity and novelty of being stolen, that she had forgotten her social discomfort and landed on a more even footing. He said, "You assume I'm connected with Sherlock."

"Two remarkable things happen to me in the same day; it seems a safe bet that the events are related. It may be naive of me, but I hope that I'm not the only one who's worried about that boy."

They already had some common ground, clearly. Before getting down to the brass tacks of convincing her to take his money, Mycroft picked up a pen and wrote _unforeseen ally_ beneath her name.

* * *

><p>He learned one possible cause for her hidden stores of unflappability the second time they saw each other. (Though he hadn't loved her then, either. Not yet.)<p>

Sherlock had been found in need of medical attention and when he called, she directed him to a pub which he recognised as her previous address from her file. Once Sherlock was seen to, they took a much needed breather at the table by the window in his spare room. It was to be the first of many such conversations, and he needed a topic that would take his thoughts away from the ill brother in the bed a few feet away. As he fixed her tea (honey and lemon), Mycroft asked her about her family and the man he'd seen waving goodbye to her on the sidewalk, "Was that your uncle?"

"I was visiting my Uncle Robby, yes. Was he in my file too?" When he nodded, she said, "Then you know most everything about me."

"I only know what facts can be gleaned from paper and from my own observations. I don't imagine that those things offer me a complete view of who you are, Miss Hooper."

"Does it matter overmuch? That is, I understood my role in all this to be medical support. I am, you know, here as a _doctor_. Possibly for both of you," she sat back and took him in, and he knew she saw the bruised skin around his eyes and his wan complexion making his freckles stand out. Mycroft smiled faintly at her, frankly too tired to even pretend arrogance. His little brother had graduated with a degree in chemistry, yet he was sleeping off a risky dose of heroin with enough cocaine mixed in to keep it interesting. _I'm failing him._ He didn't feel the superiority he would normally project, and he sensed that this woman wouldn't make fun of him despite the way he was teasing her by continuing to leave off the honorific of her proper title. The first time, he'd done it to throw her, and it had garnered no reaction beyond her distracted correction. He kept doing it because the way she tightened her lips when she corrected him looked a lot like the way she smiled, and he hadn't figured out how to earn that response yet. (He had decided not to think about why he wanted to.)

"Before you ask: no, I haven't been sleeping enough. I have been eating sporadically, though I don't think I've tasted any of it."

"Do you have anything in?"

They made their way downstairs. She followed him to his kitchen, but stopped short in the doorway. "Problem, Miss Hooper?" he prompted as he opened the refrigerator. He spotted the leftover shepherd's pie and smiled inwardly at the notion that they were, in effect, acting as shepherds. He slid the casserole dish out and turned back to see her pull that exasperated smirk.

"Your kitchen is lovely, and I'm a bit jealous of your stand mixer. Here, if you can't be arsed to say 'Doctor,' then you can just use my name. Molly is fine," she grinned and he found himself truly smiling back.

He was oddly pleased that his home met with her approval. He put two portions in the microwave to reheat, then leaned back against the counter where he braced himself to stretch the kinks out of his spine. "Please call me Mycroft. Do you cook?"

"I do- at least, well enough for my own purposes. I tend to bake more often. Baking is mainly science; if you follow the instructions, you should get the correct result. There seems to be more left to interpretation with cooking. I know what I like, but I can't tell what flavours other people want, so baking is more of a sure thing." They took their hot leftovers upstairs and found Sherlock muttering in his sleep. Molly took his pulse again as Mycroft set the plates on the little table. It was full dark now. He knew there was no real need to keep her here now that the peril was over, but... _Just to be safe_. He'd called to get her out of her shift tomorrow, and she had grumped at him over that after her boss had confirmed that she was down for a paid holiday. He'd been a little baffled as to why that would bother her, until she'd explained that she didn't like to have her life arranged without her input, and that she doubted anyone did.

"Why not just cook what you like? Does it have to benefit someone else to be considered a worthy pursuit?" he asked as she joined him.

"Ah, you equate my biddable nature with altruism. Not so!" She giggled and took a bite of the shepherd's pie.

"Oh, no?"

"I am happiest when I make other people happy. So what presents as a martyr complex is really just me being shamelessly egocentric."

He surprised himself by laughing out loud. "It's all clear to me now," he muttered wryly, "Do you think that might be a product of being raised in a service industry?"

"Perhaps, but it could just be that the people we had around us were mostly of a good sort. We did well enough that we could choose our customers, and that was useful, as we had cause to be picky."

"Your uncle?" he guessed, and she nodded.

"He was openly transgender at a time when it was downright dangerous. It's still not safe, but the early 80s were worse. We had a couple of disorderlies throw a brick through our window one night at peak hour. They shouted a couple of choice phrases, and I was scared, but then my dad and my uncle got in the window and gave it right back. Uncle Robby called out that hefting bricks must be awfully hungry work, so did they want to try the stew or would they rather stick to the fry-up? By then, well, our pub is called The Boxer for a reason: there's an amateur fighting ring in the basement. A good quarter of our patrons were scrappers of one kind or another and once they made the sidewalk," she chuckled darkly, "we never had a peep of trouble again."

Mycroft finished his bite and sipped his tea (gone cold now) before he said, "Sherlock and I have an uncle with a special fondness for women's clothing. We showed up unannounced one day, and Sherlock ran up to him. He hugged Uncle Rudy around the knees and told him how pretty his dress was. Children are so accepting of everyone. I wish we could all stay that way."

* * *

><p>It had been during his third meeting with Molly that he had learned that her imperturbability was conditional and finite. When he'd seen the mess Sherlock had made of himself, he'd hefted his younger sibling over his shoulder and stalked past the people he had hired to do that very thing. "Get everyone out, and burn it," he'd called without slowing, and Anthea had let him know that the pathologist would meet him at his house. Mycroft had watched Sherlock anxiously as they sped away towards home.<p>

Molly had started quietly giving him directions as soon as he laid Sherlock on the bed, and he understood just enough to know that the situation was as dire as he'd felt it was. This was an overdose. He held his brother in the recovery position (more to have something to _do_ than out of necessity) while Molly administered the narcotic-blocker, naloxone. Mycroft recorded his baby brother's vital signs as the doctor reported them. When Sherlock didn't rouse after four minutes, she dosed him with the blocker again. They watched him become more responsive and come around enough to be sick, sip a sports drink, be sick again, and then drift off into an irritable sleep which gradually became more restful. Molly calmly cycled through his vitals, spacing the checks out more as Sherlock continued to improve. Finally, after two hours, she relaxed somewhat and declared quietly that the worst had passed. She took a few deep breaths and sat down beside Mycroft, and then she jumped back up immediately and strode purposefully out of the room. Mycroft left instructions with Anthea who was waiting for him in the hallway and she went in to sit with the wayward man while Mycroft went after the doctor.

He found her in his garden. The late snow had remained untouched back here; the top layer, having melted the day before, had frozen hard with nightfall. The moonlight was glinting off the ice and adding an ethereal quality to the winter night. Molly had stopped beside his camellia shrubs.

_Oh_.

She was _crying_. Grateful that he was still wearing his overcoat after all of that, he hastily shrugged out of it and draped it around her shoulders which shook with the force of her hushed sobs. His fingers fumbled in his waistcoat pocket to offer her his handkerchief. She swiped the tears from her cheeks and forced her breathing to slow, steadily tucking herself away. He watched with respect for the work that he knew went into pulling on composure that wasn't quite the right size. Sorrow had been chased away from the corners of her eyes, but it still thickened her voice when she said, "I didn't want you to see that. He's your brother; you've got more reason to be upset than I have."

"I am far more distraught than it would be helpful to express. This isn't good, is it?" He caught his coat as it began to slide from its perch and he left his arm around her to hold it in place.

"Either he was too high to measure properly, too high to give a damn, or-"

Her voice hitched and Mycroft finished, "Or he didn't mean to see morning. I don't believe we need to worry about that. He's reckless, not suicidal. Though, I suppose when one is using opioids, a fatalistic approach has the same eventual outcome as an active death-wish."

She snorted and asked, "What is he doing _here_? What am _I_ doing here? I opted for pathology precisely because all my patients are already dead. There's only so much damage I can do in a mortuary."

He sighed, and his next words cost him more than he was willing to claim, "If you see fit to back out, then of course you may. You never really had to do any of this; I just needed to be sure you wouldn't make things worse. For what it's worth, you did beautifully. As to why Sherlock is here: if I took him to a hospital, what would they do?"

She thought for a moment before she answered, "Everything that I just did, and then they would assign him a social worker who would insist on putting him in a rehab facility." He saw when she arrived at the same conclusion that he'd come to months ago when he'd first become aware of the depth of the problem. "He's not there yet. He'd fake his way through the treatment and disappear. He's clever enough. Oh _hell_."

"You see my dilemma. You see an awful lot, actually," he said with a considering gaze. Her brown hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail, and his greatcoat dwarfed her utterly. "Molly, you just saved my brother's life. I am much obliged to you, and I'd be more so if you would consent to be summoned again. Please?"

She looked at him, and then she looked into him.

"Yes, Mycroft."

And that was it.

He would later realise that she had never actually used his name before that moment in his back garden. There was a tone in her voice that had called his heart home to her. He decided, as if he had a choice, that she was welcome to it. He wasn't really using it for much.

He drew himself up, and focused. "Any ideas?"

"Well, I have a thought," she said, and continued after he nodded, "Sherlock is not the problem. The drugs aren't even the real issue, because if he wasn't hooked on this, it'd be something else. The real trouble is in the reason he uses. So, what if we found him a truly compelling motive for quitting?"

* * *

><p>On Monday evening, Molly received a flurry of texts. Sherlock had realised- as the hour had grown later and he'd faced John's arrival home- that his plan of convincing his blogger to share his bed might go badly wrong if John simply opted for the couch. Worse, he might throw an admittedly understandable fit about his absent bedroom furniture and collect his baby daughter and leave. Molly had reassured her old friend that if he was honest about his feelings, all would be well. It had worked for her with his brother, after all. Then she spent the next hour texting him bad puns and silly jokes to distract him from his nerves.<p>

What do you call a snake who records past events?

Snakes don't take the papers, do they? SH

A hisssstorian.

He'd got into it after the first few, and by the time he'd said that he could hear John on the stairs, his texts had taken on a much more upbeat mood.

Molly met Sherlock for lunch the next day. She knew as soon as he swept into the canteen at St. Bart's that the night had gone well, and he was going to be just fine. His customary bored scowl had been usurped by what- for him- counted as a smile.

Every time Molly saw Sherlock hale and hearty, she struggled to suppress the urge to grin like a loon over the thought that he could have died years ago, but for her intervention. It was a bit like mending some broken wild creature, only to have it come back to visit periodically; she knew where he had been torn, and she delighted in finding those places healing up so well. In some small way, his triumphs were hers too, and she was ridiculously proud of him and of everyone who had helped him find his feet.

"All clear?"

"I just offered to share my bed and he didn't even argue. He hardly even blinked. If I had known it would be this easy, I would have done it years ago."

She shook her head, "You weren't ready then. Neither of you were, I don't think. Everything unfolds the way it ought to in the end. So, what happened?"

"A lot was said. _I_ said a lot, far more than I meant to... Oh for God's sake, Molly, I told him all of it. He saw my scars and then he looked at me like he could feel the hurts that made every one of them. I just-" Sherlock gulped his lemonade and took a breath, "It was terrifying. I mean I didn't _quite_ come out with it, but he understood what I meant. He says he'll stay with me, and that whatever I want is fine. My John."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>Rhythm is a week or two after this chapter, for those of you keeping track. I am also on AO3.

Please let me know what you all think! Comments really do help my process in the sense that if I don't get any, I stop writing.


	5. Waterfall

Once again, thank you to my beta, Cornishrexmomma!

I move slow and steady  
>But I feel like a waterfall<br>Yeah, I move slow and steady  
>Past the ones that I used to know<br>And I'm never ready  
>'Cause I know, I know, I know<br>That time won't let me  
>Show what I want to show<br>"Slow and Steady"- Of Monsters and Men

* * *

><p>Greg had never been to the Cloister Café. It had simply never occurred to him to do so, until he was composing a text to Molly while getting ready for work early on Thursday morning. It had been a thought at the back of his mind for the past week, even as he lay in the darkness of Mycroft's bedroom listening to the other man breathe while he slept on Monday night.<p>

Everything happened in Mycroft's eyes, and certainly the politician was not alone there; most people's eyes gave them away. Greg couldn't count the number of times he had been interrogating a suspect or even taking a statement from a witness or victim and judged that there was something they were keen to keep to themselves. What made Mycroft remarkable was that his eyes told the truth as the rest of his face lied for all he was worth. Especially his mouth, and what came out of it.

Until that meeting in the park last week. For the first time in all the years they'd known each other, Mycroft's words had matched his eyes. Most of his expression had been pinched and desperately nervous and his nose had wrinkled, completely aghast at what was going on under it as he spoke. Since then, Greg had begun reviewing a backlog of glances, and he felt like a fool for not realising that he was not alone in his feelings.

And when he considered Molly- well, considering Molly Hooper was hardly out of his way- but hadn't it struck him at the little party on Baker Street that the normally friendly woman had studiously avoided greeting or even looking in the direction of the elder Holmes? He had almost asked her during their little conference outside if Mycroft had said something to make her uneasy. Sometimes it seemed that his very politeness was off-putting, and Greg suspected that being a well-mannered bully was part of Mycroft's role in the government.

When he walked into the café, he was a little surprised to see that Molly wasn't already there. From what Greg knew of her, Molly's version of _on time_ actually translated to _twenty minutes early_. She might show up with her buttons done wrong and one shoe untied, but she showed up. Then again, this place in St. Bartholomew's church was so close to the hospital of the same name that they'd made the appointment for just after her shift ended; if she was anything like Mycroft or himself, she'd probably got tied up at work.

Greg was a fidgeter. That was part of the reason he had started smoking: it gave him something to do with his hands that looked like it was purposeful. In more recent years, the rise of mobile phones had given him other options, but it was hard to kick a habit. So when Molly rushed in five minutes late, he was already engrossed with sketching the architecture on a napkin and didn't notice her until she said, "That's really well done, it looks just like the ceiling. Sorry I'm late, I had to type up a report and then I couldn't get the computer to find the printer."

"I know how that goes. No harm done. C'mon, I'll buy you a pie."

When they settled back at the little table by the window, she waved with her fork at his napkin. "I didn't know you could draw."

He flashed an easy grin at her, "I guess we're all full of surprises, eh?"

"You have questions. I suppose I do, too. Go ahead, you first."

"How long-" he began, then he let all of his air out on a laugh, "Yeah, we'll start there, how long?"

"I met Mycroft when he kidnapped me and gave me money to help him look after his brother a few hours after I found Sherlock sleeping it off on a gurney in the mortuary."

"He wasn't!"

"He was. I thought he was dead until he started talking. Took years off my life." She paused to take a sip of her rooibos tea while he chuckled. "That's been about nine, no, nine-and-a-half years. I'm not exactly sure when I fell in love with Mycroft, but I didn't figure it out for a few months. It crept up on me. What about you?"

He told her about his drunken dare, and Mycroft's response. "So we met him pretty much the same way, for the same reasons, at about the same time, and went about the whole thing differently."

"We got here. You two have to sort of build your relationship backwards, don't you?"

"I guess so, and to be honest, I'm looking forward to it. You really told him he could keep me?" He cocked his head at her, disbelieving.

"He looked so down about calling off your arrangement. I don't want him to ever be sad on my account."

"I'm just- I've never done this before," he explained.

"I have," and she laughed when he stared at her and missed the table trying to set his tea down. "It was at uni. He was into history, she studied philosophy, and I had a lot of sciences as premed. There's more course overlap that one would expect. They're still together; they've got a kid now. Every year they invite me to their Christmas do, and I politely decline. It was never serious for me; mostly, I guess, because I saw how serious it could be for them. I think our situation is different. You know, when I left the tube station on my way to work yesterday morning, it was absolutely pouring. He was there with his umbrella. I know I ought to find that creepy, and if he were anyone else, it would be. But it's Mycroft, and... it was sort of comforting and sweet." Molly searched his face and said, "He cares about both of us, and that makes us uncommonly lucky, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, and we both love him. I don't guess he's had an overabundance of that, and that's a damn shame."

* * *

><p>Molly liked plants. She could remember being faintly interested in the herbs that grew in the flat over her family's pub, a hodgepodge collection of flowerpots balanced precariously on windowsills and tables and spreading onto the floor. Reg Hooper had readily handed cooking responsibilities for the household and the pub alike over to his younger brother, but he maintained sovereignty over growing the herbs that went into the dishes. Following a science experiment in primary school involving a bean in a cup of dirt, Molly had made the logical leap that all plants-and every living thing- grew from something small. She had been instantly captivated by that notion, and had slowly taken over watering duties under her father's painstaking tutelage. So when Mycroft suggested a visit to Kew Gardens, she didn't bother to keep the excitement out of her voice as she agreed. He wouldn't have been fooled anyway.<p>

Part of the attraction of the Gardens was that the likelihood of inclement weather in late March coupled with the relative anonymity of two outwardly unremarkable people meant that they could be less circumspect than they had been on their previous dates.

Twice in the last month, they had shared meals in precisely the sort of cafe no one would think to find Mycroft in, and they'd taken casual strolls down streets or through parks on four other occasions. Their run-ins were always orchestrated beforehand, but appeared plausibly accidental. Once, in a silly mood, Molly had invited Mycroft to a clandestine meeting in a Tesco's freezer section that had led to the pair taking separate routes to his house for a feast of party appetizers and a _Top Gear_ marathon.

Last week, Mycroft had timed it perfectly- as usual- and arrived in the lab as she was preparing to take her morning coffee break. "Could you spare a moment, Miss Hooper?"

The doctor had warmed at the reminder of his long-ago ribbing and replied, "There's a camera in my office, or I'd be pleased to spare several."

"That supply room behind you is shockingly free of surveillance," he'd muttered in a low tone that had brought pink to her cheeks. She'd bit lightly into her lip, and smiled a bit before she turned and stepped through the door. He'd waited a minute, and followed her. Once it closed behind him, he had finally voiced his concerns, "Molly... Are you sure?"

"Sure about a snog in a cupboard? We've only got five minutes, so I don't know what else you're aiming for," she had whispered impishly, and he'd rolled his eyes.

"No. That is... I was worried that you would feel differently after we'd spent a little time together."

Molly had blinked at him. "You thought I only loved you when you weren't around to mess it up?"

"Not exactly. Well, yes. That, too," Mycroft fumbled in a way that she always found adorable. "I'm not the same as I was when we knew each other better."

"Yes you are, and I love you. I doubt that's likely to change. Did you come all the way here just to offer me a chance to recant?"

He'd smiled at her reassurance. "Not only for that, no," and he had pulled her to him.

* * *

><p>As they walked across the lawn, the storm that had been threatening all day chose its moment and the wind kicked up and wrapped her long broomstick skirt around her legs as they ran for a smaller glasshouse.<p>

The menacing grey skies had kept most of the attractions free of crowds, and they'd been able to discreetly hold hands as they wandered through the conservatories and between the rows of blooming cherry trees, and she'd learned that he was a little discomfited by heights when he'd accompanied her on the Treetop Walkway.

Now, as the clouds broke open, the pattering sound of water came from outside as well as inside. The centre of the space was dedicated to an indoor pond, the surface of which was covered with enormous lily pads, and a few enterprising lilies had made an early appearance. It seemed she and Mycroft were the only ones around to enjoy them. She gestured to the storm as he took a seat on a bench and joked, "We've got to quit meeting like this."

"Let's _never_ quit meeting like this, my dear Molly," he said, fingers still laced with hers, and he tugged her closer. She laid a hand on his shoulder as she bent to kiss him, and he closed his eyes. Emboldened, she climbed onto his lap and tenderly teased his lips apart with hers, deepening the kiss. They were quickly approaching the point at which one of them would bring proceedings to a close, and she wasn't going to be the one to stop them this time. They had been pacing themselves, and that was fine, that was wise... but she _wanted_.

She slid her hands into his dark auburn hair while he traced her jawline and kissed a path across her neck, and when he scraped the edge of his teeth over her earlobe, she groaned softly, "I love you." He pulled back to look at her, and she leaned in and said, "Mycroft, _please_."

He drew her close, and surrendered.

They made love for the first time in the Waterlily House while rain streamed over the glass and hid the pair from the view of the battered trees, their only witnesses.

After, he said quietly, "I had an itinerary outlined. I had several proper trysts plotted out with some room for adjusting the schedule, reservations made at private restaurants, possible avenues of conversation which both parties would find entertaining. This was not even on the agenda for another three weeks, and then we were meant to pass several hours in a _bed_ following a gentle seduction."

"Do you wish we'd stuck to your plans?"

"Not at all," he answered, laughing.

* * *

><p>The Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew and the Cloister Café at St. Bartholomew's are real places, but sadly, I have never been because I live out here in America. They were delightful to research, though, and now I really want to see the UK!<p> 


	6. Sharing Shelter

It's not really graphic, but some of this chapter is spent naked-with-intent. Thank you to my beta reader, Cornishrexmomma!

But oh how it feels so real  
>Lying here with no one near<br>Only you, and you can hear me  
>When I say softly, slowly<p>

Hold me closer, tiny dancer  
>Count the headlights on the highway<br>Lay me down in sheets of linen  
>You had a busy day today<br>"Tiny Dancer"- Elton John

* * *

><p>"Honestly, babe, why didn't you say anything?" Greg asked Mycroft. They had just settled in, legs tangled together under the quilted duvet. It was much cooler than it normally would be in Mycroft's house. Greg had mentioned the chill when they'd come in earlier, and the other man had simply reached over and warmed his hands with his own, bringing them to his mouth and blowing on them. Then, well, Greg had let himself get distracted. Mycroft had been in near-constant contact with him since then, unwilling to be more than a breath away, and he couldn't say he was cold anymore. What he was, basically, was satisfied.<p>

_Babe_, the younger man mouthed, and looked at him quizzically.

"Do you mind? It can stay in my head, if it bothers you," Greg offered. He'd been silently calling Mycroft various nicknames for years now. He'd eased control over his words, seeing as they were in an actual relationship now- however secret it was.

They had just shared their seventh date. Sort of. Officially, they had bumped into each other in St. James Park partway through a leisurely Wednesday evening after work. They'd had a little sunshine peeking through the cloud cover today, so it had been a nice stroll around the lake. He'd wanted to go across the lake on the footbridge, but it seemed everyone else in the city had had the same idea, and he'd relented when he'd seen his partner's look of trepidation. He couldn't help but think of St. James' as _their_ park, situated as it was between their workspaces. It had been the contact point for plenty of their meetings in the past; if Gregory Lestrade were just slightly more fanciful, he'd say that the lake had reflected the pair of them standing side by side often enough to suspect an affair.

"It's fine." Mycroft's expression was carefully blank, but worse, his eyes were closed. That last was unfair. Okay, Greg was willing to deal with his lover setting the temperature in the house to below brisk to manoeuvre him into cuddling when Myc ought to know- had been told- that all he had to do was say what he wanted. But to take away his only accurate gauge to the truth of what was really going on just when he was learning to depend on it was dirty fighting.

"In that you'll tolerate it, or..." he trailed off as his brain caught up with the conversation, "do you like it?"

Mycroft looked at him, and Greg saw that he'd got it right. The man knew where his defences were weakest, and just now there were no walls up. "The latter. I envy your ability to discuss this sort of thing, but I'm afraid I don't share your temerity in matters of the heart. Why didn't _you_ speak up?"

"I thought you'd call it off."

Mycroft winced and looked away. "I'm not sure that was ever really an option for me," he admitted, "I tried to say that I wanted to stop, many times. The only lie I couldn't tell."

"Well, I'm pretty glad of that, Mycroft."

"Not 'Mycroft.'" He was grumbling, but he met Greg's eyes expectantly, and Greg punctuated his answer with little kisses in the spaces around each word.

"Honey. Baby. Darling. _Love._"

* * *

><p>There were secret passageways in Mycroft's house, and the same structures existed in his mind. They were quick paths to safer places in the event that negotiations took a sinister turn, or (as was the current case) if tedious meetings ran over. At the moment, they were debating the possible smoking ban in London's public parks, and he could not possibly determine what bearing that had on anything of import. He had a fairly strong opinion on the matter, but he'd found that part of diplomacy was ensuring that no one knew what your true aim was. On slow days he would cheer himself up by dropping hints of one point to someone, and a diametrically opposed view to someone else, just to keep them guessing.<p>

Like his umbrella: everyone thought they had worked out what it did. It could be reinforced with steel rebar for taking out people's kneecaps. It could have a delicate rapier it the stem or nerve gas in the tip. Perhaps it was a portable heat-shield for when he was caught inside a blast radius, possibly caused by the pellet-sized grenades it surely launched. Anthea had reported overhearing what had become his favourite theory, which held that it contained a jet-propulsion system that allowed him to fly away like Mary Poppins.

He needed a distraction (or a smoke) or he was going to chew right through his tongue in a heroic effort to not shout that if they were going to waste everyone's time discussing unenforceable interventionist legislature, he had actual business to attend to elsewhere. It was swiftly becoming paramount that he should escape down a dark corridor towards sunnier thoughts. All of it being in his mind made it possible for him to completely ignore building codes, and he'd put in tunnels and catwalks and ladders.

While keeping a few spare brain cells focused on what was being said and by whom, he ducked through the trapdoor under the conference table in his mental version of this room. He dropped onto the landing of the back stairs in his home and dusted his knees off before he descended the steps which (both here and in the physical world) let out into the walk-in pantry. He went through into the kitchen and headed for the door that would let him into the back garden.

He'd known when he bought the house that having a kitchen door was a bit more of a security risk than was absolutely necessary, but he'd excused it. There was something friendly and homey about kitchen doors, and who would waste time trying to break in on the ground level when they had a sliding glass door into the study from the upper deck?

He found Molly sitting on the porch steps with her bare feet in the dirt. Oddly, a young memory-version of Sherlock was sitting next to her, his knobby knees pulled up to his chin while he watched her move a pear tree seedling to a bigger pot. "When the tree grows, will there be a partridge in it?" the boy was asking her, and she laughed.

"Yep, partridges will come from all over just to see it. They'll have guided tours and photo opportunities and tiny souvenir shirts that say, 'I Saw Sherlock's Pear Tree!'"

"Oh! Is it mine?"

"'Course it is." She worked the soil around to fill in the gaps between the root-ball and the wall of the planter. "Pear trees are a symbol for comfort, and I comfort you when things go pear-shaped. Go pick a sunny place in the garden for it to live when it's big enough," she instructed, and the child was off. She came to stand beside the pond with him, and he saw that there were little water lilies growing there now and he smiled. _Purity of heart_. He couldn't have planned their first time together any better than it had happened.

He'd been too happy (too high on the memory of how she'd moved, astride him on the bench) to be embarrassed about it at the time. Once the wind had died down enough to use his umbrella, they'd got a cab to her flat and hung up their damp things. She'd started a fire in her tiny grate, and then he had laid her in a pile of blankets on her hearthrug and started another. As it stood, they still hadn't made it to a bed, but he hoped to change that soon.

They had slipped out of their clothes and into Mycroft's big bed, and he had tugged the duvet up over their heads. What began as soft kisses and light fingertips tracing constellations in each other's freckles slowly grew fevered, the touches more intent on their destinations. Molly canted her hips and rocked against his hand where he cupped her, and then they both froze. From the hallway and now moving into the study one room away from where they lay, she heard a deep voice singing a Fleetwood Mac song. Whoever it was, they weren't doing too badly. Mycroft breathed into space between them, "Housekeeper. He must've switched times, and I didn't get the message. I am sorry." She tried not to look disappointed, but he must have seen it anyway because a slow smile slid sideways onto his face and he continued, "You would have to be completely silent. Can you do that, Molly? I don't mean to make it easy."

When she smirked and whispered, "Yes, Mycroft," he pressed his body against her, over her, inside her.

In the end, it was Mycroft who made a noise, but by then they were the only ones near to hear it.

* * *

><p>When she woke early the next morning, it was to his fingers stroking lightly over the muscles in her back. As she focused, she discovered that the strokes were deliberate characters. He had been painting her with invisible words as she slept, though she couldn't quite catch what he'd writing. She smiled into the pillow, and felt him scrawl <em>good morning<em> in a small, tidy script.

She turned to face him, and said, "Good morning to you, too."

"I didn't mean to wake you. Did you sleep well?"

In reply, Molly quoted the song the housekeeper had been singing the evening before. She had a feeling that it would be stuck in her head all day. "'I've been dreaming. Thought it was in vain. Ah, but now you're here, can't believe that you're back again.' I love you."

_Twenty-five_, he wrote out.

"You're counting?" His gaze was steady when he met hers, but his ears were a bit pink, so she had her answer. "Is that all, really? It feels like I say it constantly," she mused. _Maybe I'm just not saying it out loud_. It had not escaped her notice that he never said it back, and she had briefly wondered if it made him uncomfortable to hear her sentiments, but his reactions were always so encouraging. "So I've said that I love you twenty-five times?"

He was still languidly drawing letters on her skin, but he said aloud, "Twenty-six, now."

"That number seems too low. I can do better than that," she assured him with a grin. Curious, she centered her attention on what he was scrawling in repeating lines down her left _latissimus dorsi_, over her heart.

_I love you, too_.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> The housekeeper was singing "As Long As You Follow" by Fleetwood Mac. The whole song is lovely for those two, and can be heard here: watch?v=fq9E7lkqj6g  
>The chapter title was inspired by Bob Marley's legendary song, "Is This Love?" It feels a bit more Mystrade and it's over here: watch?v=CHekNnySAfM<br>Maybe I should build a playlist for the three of them on 8tracks or something.  
>What say you?<p> 


	7. Away

My love  
>I'm an owl on the sill in the evening<br>But morning finds you  
>Still warm and breathing<br>"This Tornado Loves You" -Neko Case

* * *

><p>Molly sent out a text before beginning her first autopsy of the morning. How's the lab coming along? Then she switched on her playlist and got her job done.<p>

Trying to find the right music for a post-mortem was a tricky thing. If the person had died violently, as was often the case, she would need something literally upbeat with a lot of percussion, but anything too cheerful could come off as mocking or disrespectful. There was the element of risk involved, too: if she used a song too frequently to keep her spirits up while she worked, she would start to associate it with the sad circumstances in which she normally heard it. There was something especially deflating about hearing a formerly bright tune dim with melancholy. She had managed to wear out her enthusiasm for an entire Sister Hazel album that way in the early days of her career. It was only recently that she could listen to any given track on _Fortress_ without being immediately plunked into an emotional slump. She managed her response by casting a wide net of musical preference. She had no snobbery about her taste: pop was popular for a reason, she figured. She mixed in Death Cab for Cutie with Led Zeppelin and Joe Satriani with Enya. The further afield she branched from the mainstream, the less likely she was to be confronted with recent mortuary soundtrack unexpectedly, so she dug up Neutral Milk Hotel and Dar Williams. She had almost seventy gigabytes of music to flip through in just about every genre, and none of it was right today.

She was trying not to think about it.

Some time later, when everything from the internal examination had been measured and recorded, she took a break and checked her phone. No missed calls.

_It's probably nothing_.

The only message was the answering text from Sherlock. On schedule and nearly done. Can you start collecting ears for me? SH

The detective and his blogger had worked out the idea that the best thing for everyone at Baker Street was for them to rent the basement flat from Mrs. Hudson to use as a laboratory. It would benefit the landlady who had never been able to do much with the space, and get Sherlock out from underfoot in Molly's lab upstairs. With John picking up shifts in between cases, Sherlock was sometimes needed at home to help look after Elanor when the game was off.

Glad for the distraction, she typed out, Sure, what are you planning to do with them?

Testing the dissolution rate of cartilage in various substances. It's a good experiment to break in a new lab with. 14 should be plenty. SH

I'll need back whatever is not used.

He rose to the bait. Fine. Lend me your ears.

When she was done giggling, the same unease crept back. She sent him one last message, waited for the reply, and frowned when it came.

Molly had been busy. With April coming to a close, the temperature and the murder rates were on the rise. Exciting deaths had brought the crime-fighting couple to St. Bart's, sometimes with Elanor in tow if it was a short visit. John had set a hard rule that no one could hold the baby and touch anything in the lab, and the mortuary was a solid no. Just recently, the pathologist had seen more of Sherlock than she had of Mycroft.

Since the little sage plant on her birthday, she had been the delighted recipient of a steady trickle of tiny gifts. When Mycroft was away for work, he would send along trinkets for her: earrings that dangled apple seeds from the stud, and a salt candle holder that glowed pink when she lit the wick of the tealight she'd placed inside. Once, she had bumped into someone and later found a polished stone in her pocket with a note. _Moss agate is said to be beneficial to gardeners and healers, if one goes in for that sort of thing. _He knew she favourite so far had been left in her window box while she was at work, probably by an errand runner who had no idea who she was. She had the fanciful impression that delivering messages like this was part of rookie hazing for British spies. In a water-proof container, there had been a bronze pendant in the form of an owl whose wings folded up to reveal a watch dial. The note had been written on the inside of the box lid. _This seemed just the right mix of twee and functional. Like you, it has hidden ingenuity._

That had been six days ago. She hadn't actually seen Mycroft in nine.

While rendezvous between them were typically little more than encounters on the street or in her morgue, they took place with a comforting frequency. She thought of them as dates because they were usually prearranged, but it was closer to the truth to call them fly-bys. They met like old friends might, by dint of common shared spaces, passing each other in hallways and on sidewalks and sharing a few words and a subtle brush of hands without much pausing in their steps. It was rare that they both had time to adjourn to more private settings. On the occasion that Mycroft had some hours to spare, he was just as likely to call on Greg.

Which brought her to her next step.

"Greg, hi!" she chirped into her mobile when he picked up, fear squeezing her throat and making her voice higher, "Listen, have you seen Mycroft?"

* * *

><p>Greg hadn't.<p>

Perhaps it was because he was still adjusting to seeing the other man so regularly, but when a week had passed without Mycroft's profile darkening his office door, it hadn't registered that this was any different from how they'd conducted their arrangement for years.

Only with Mycroft Holmes was it possible to carry on a long-distance relationship when both people lived in the same city.

It hadn't yet sunk in that they were truly more involved than that now. It really should have; the diplomat had been pursuing him with an ardency that made Greg wonder if his lover believed the adage _out of sight, out of mind_ and was working to stay firmly in Greg's thoughts.

He'd received a series of birthday presents from Mycroft in absentia. First, it had been a kneadable eraser in a small box on his desk, then a package of the coloured pencils he preferred in his mailbox, and then a set of inking pens delivered one by one in the oddest places. The last one had been on the top edge of his bedroom doorframe. The surprises had spread out for days following his birthday, finally culminating in the arrival of a large sketchpad bound in leather. They'd never done this before. He'd felt Mycroft's attendance with each gift, so it had taken Molly ringing him to make him realise that he hadn't actually set eyes on the man.

He'd agreed to meet Molly, with the suggestion that she play host. His flat was a bit disordered with last night's dishes still in the sink and yesterday's clothes on the floor. He was better about keeping things tidy than he'd been in his youth, but there was so much room for improvement there that it would've been more effort to get messier.

When she opened the door, she laughed through her obvious nerves and said, "I was waiting by the fire escape. I've been friends with the Holmes boys too long."

"They have that effect, yeah." He followed her in and sank gratefully into the recliner by her little fireplace. "When was the last time you saw _our_ Holmes?"

"The Saturday before last, the eighteenth." She shifted and started to pace across the floor boards. He saw her catch herself mid-step and look a bit pained. "Do you want tea? I'm going to make tea."

He got up after a moment and followed her. He found her in the kitchen, mouth a tight line, hands pressed flat on the worktop, staring determinedly at the dishtowel hanging from the cupboard doorknob. She swayed slightly when he placed a tentative hand on the line of her shoulder, then she spun around and wrapped her arms around him. "How long have you been worried?" he asked.

"A while. Since we started dating, we've seen each other about twice a week. He sends little things or notes when he's away, but he's never been unreachable for this long. He rang me that night to say he had to go out of town, have you heard from him since then?"

"Yeah, but not by much. Early Sunday. He was getting on a plane, but he wanted to wish me a happy birthday. Been finding my presents all week, so I hadn't even had time to really miss him yet, and then I had my son this past weekend. He kept me busy, running around. Did you get in touch with Anthea?"

"I haven't got her number. It's changed since Sherlock was using. Mycroft's phone goes right to voice mail."

"I tried him after I rang off with you earlier. I'm thinking this is enough of an emergency to bring in help," he said, and he tapped out a text. Anthea, it's Gregory Lestrade. Where is Mycroft? He showed Molly his phone and let her copy the number into her own mobile. While she saved the new information, he asked, "Why'd you wait so long, Moll? You don't ever have to be on your own in this."

"I know his position keeps him pretty busy, and he said this might happen. I kept thinking he was probably just someplace where he couldn't make contact, or maybe he'd just made it home and was with you, and would drop me a line later. Then I talked to Sherlock today and he didn't know where his brother was, and... It just didn't sit right."

His mobile buzzed with Anthea's response. Extraction underway. Might be a few days, delicate negotiations. Look after each other, I'll let you know. A

Molly gave a watery smile when he read it out. "At least she's working on it. Thank you for all of this. I'm really glad Mycroft has you."

"I'm glad he has you, too," He dropped his phone back into his trouser pocket. He couldn't even muster any astonishment that Anthea had sussed out the nature of their attachments with Mycroft. It was unlikely she'd had a conversation with her boss about them, he was far too buttoned up about such things for that to have been the case. So few people knew Mycroft as anything other than a one dimensional government spook that it was a relief to have Molly to talk to. Until his return from parts unknown, even Sherlock had dismissed his older brother as being exactly as cold as he pretended to be. And now it sounded like Myc had got himself pinched. This, Greg understood, was part of the reason for the cover of secrecy over the whole thing. What if Mycroft's- or Britain's- adversaries had decided to be especially ugly and snatched Greg too? Or Molly? They both lived alone; even with their regular work schedules, how long would it have been before someone filed a missing person report?

Mycroft's determination to keep their situation private was understandable, if frustrating. But why had Molly been against anyone finding out that she fancied Sherlock's brother that she was willing to let people think she was sweet on the detective himself? It was a bit of a puzzle, and here was the key, washing her face in the kitchen sink not three feet away. So he asked her.

Molly tried to cover her lopsided grin with the towel as she dried her cheeks. "I guess I thought if anyone knew, Mycroft would find out by osmosis from the collective subconscious. That sounds silly, but it isn't so far-fetched when you consider who he is. It took a bit of convincing to get Sherlock to keep my secret once he figured it out, though it was his understanding that what was going on between you and his brother was more serious than it was at the time. Then I had to defend Sherlock's honour to John."

"What's that now?"

She gritted her teeth and winced, "How much do you know about Sherlock's time away?"

"I think I just learned more from the way you asked that question than I heard in Anderson's theories. Talk to me."

"I'm not actually qualified to handle the damage he came back with. If I had to stick a diagnosis on it, I'd say post-traumatic stress. The nightmares got bad enough that he didn't sleep well alone, so I'd share a bed with him on most Thursdays and let him get some rest. John found out in the most awkward of ways. He thought Sherlock was using my feelings for him, so I got to explain that it was platonic on my part, too."

"And it all came out?" Despite the disheartening news about Sherlock, Greg heard a chuckle in his own voice at the thought of John Watson finding the two friends cuddling.

"Always does, yep, and I decided it was enough. I'd tell Mycroft how I felt before he could find out from someone else, and I'd be no worse off when he rejected me. But then he didn't." She put the kettle on at last. "I promised you a cup. Stay for a bit and keep me company, will you?"

So he did.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>I did a lot of research on post-mortems in general and in the UK, and I couldn't find a time frame anywhere. Anyone know?

Thank you to my beta reader, Cornishrexmomma! Mwah!


	8. Home

Well, I came home  
>Like a stone<br>And I fell heavy into your arms  
>These days of dust<br>Which we've known  
>Will blow away with this new sun<br>"I Will Wait"- Mumford & Sons

* * *

><p>Mycroft felt like the inside of his skull had been scrubbed with sandpaper and packed with sawdust. He desperately wanted some water, but they kept giving him these damnable ice chips like he hadn't got more sense than to know what would happen if he drank his fill at one go.<p>

He grumpily crunched the ice, and grimaced at the shockwave of pain in his head.

"Wait for it to melt, sir." Anthea made a face like she was trying not to snicker at him.

He rasped, "I am a grown man. I am thirsty. If I want to gulp down a gallon of water and make myself sick, that is within my rights."

Anthea waved at the bag of fluids attached to the IV in his arm. "You're getting hydrated already, Holmes. They are talking about keeping you overnight. Behave, or I might have to let them. As it is, you're not to show your face at the office tomorrow. Really, I'm recommending three days off, and I suggest you take them if you don't want your dry cleaning accidentally shredded." He started to open his mouth to point out that he could sit behind a desk as easily as he was sitting in this airplane seat, but she cut him off. "You need to relax. Oh, and your fish were hungry. I took care of it."

Her words were innocuous and spoken off-handedly, but Mycroft could only blink slowly at her. He didn't keep a tank. "Yes, thank you," he said. "My automatic feeder needs adjusting."

"Your population has grown. It's good that they don't seem to be fighting, even with the shortage of resources. The water looks clearer these days." Changing the subject, she asked if she could trust him not to do anything regrettable if she wrangled some juice for him.

While she was negotiating with the doctor and the flight attendant, he watched the clouds and processed the new data from their coded conversation. He had to agree with her assessment: he was feeling much healthier of late. His output at work was even on the rise. He hadn't looked for improvement in either of those areas; if anything, he had expected his mental acuity to suffer. He had definitely found himself in a better mood these past three months, more so than could be explained by the chemical benefits to be gained from regular sex.

As a younger man he'd partaken with more frequency, but it had been mostly to get it out of his system. Sex had satisfied a need, but it had uniformly left him feeling chilled and oddly hollow, like he might ring if someone thumped him. (Perhaps he had more needs than he was previously aware of.) Until his dalliance with Gregory had reached critical levels of emotional connection, he'd been unclear as to why people went to the trouble to seek a permanent lover if one was consigning oneself to a lifetime of the same lacklustre experience without the benefit of novelty. Some half-remembered conversation echoed through a darkened room in his mind, and he heard Sherlock asking if there was something wrong with the two of them. At the time, he would have answered in the affirmative if he hadn't felt that his brother's melancholy needed no assistance. Now he was glad he'd deflected. Maybe the trouble had always been the company they kept. The right people seemed to make all the difference.

If he'd understood Anthea's message, his two partners had joined forces to figure out where he'd got to. (Wasn't it nice to be both missing and missed?)

Here was something new.

* * *

><p>"So we get to the scene, and the victim's dressed in the front half of a My Little Pony costume. And the poor sod's been stabbed in the back."<p>

"No! You don't mean-"

"Oh yeah." Greg Lestrade leaned forward from where he sat on the long burgundy leather sofa and rested his elbows lightly on his knees. "Go ahead."

"The killer was a horse's arse!" Molly was already having trouble speaking through her laughter. She and Greg had been sharing gallows humour for the last hour, ever since they'd arrived at Mycroft's house.

In the three days since sounding the alarm, she had been trading calls with the detective inspector and they'd managed to keep one another's spirits up. Late this morning, they had each received a text from Anthea saying that Mycroft was coming home tonight, safe and somewhat sound. She'd then had sets of keys delivered into their locked desk drawers, with a fob that would turn off the security system. Molly had begged off work tomorrow, citing a personal emergency. Mike Stamford had heard and asked if everyone was okay. She respected the older doctor, and she didn't want to lie outright, so she'd explained that she had an old friend who was ill. It was true, more or less.

They had both come straight from work, too bent on seeing Mycroft after his ordeal to stop and change out of their work clothes. It didn't make a difference for Molly; even on the occasions that she had to interact with the grieving public, they were unlikely to be aware of her attire. Knowing she would have scrubs for the dirty work, she dressed for comfort, favouring soft fabrics and deep pockets. She figured a lab coat was professional enough.

Greg was still in his suit, but he'd tossed the jacket onto the arm of the couch and sometime during this last round of stories it had slid to the floor and lay in a crumpled heap. She rose from her position in the overstuffed armchair and caught the grey fabric up. She went to hang it, but she glanced back the copper watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

As she finished at the row of hooks, the door opened and the owner of the house walked in after his long absence. He didn't look so steady, but still, being assured that he was alive had not prepared her for how much better she felt for seeing him. The doctor had to grip her own wrists to keep from touching Mycroft before she knew what kind of shape he was in. "Are you hurt?" she asked urgently.

Anthea came up behind her boss an answered before he could, "Doctor Hooper, I've just emailed you this one's medical report. In short, he's got a cracked rib, but that was done over a week ago. Nasty bruises, there. He was dehydrated when we fetched him out, but we hung some Ringer's Lactate on him and got his blood pressure back up on the flight home. His glucose is still a bit on the low side. I'll leave that with you. He's already been debriefed, so he's officially on leave until Monday; see if you can make that stick? Keep him in bed as much as possible."

Molly saw Greg pull up beside her. "We'll surely try," he deadpanned.

With a smirk and a nod, Anthea was gone.

Moving slowly, Molly stepped in close to Mycroft. Not knowing if he could tolerate any amount of pressure on his rib, she took his hand. He sighed and wrapped her up in his embrace, resting his chin on her head. She took a cue from his gentle pressure and gingerly hugged him back, whispering, "I love you, and I'm so glad that you're home. Go take your clothes off."

"The romance is gone," he chuckled, and then winced.

She rolled her eyes. "I need to check your injuries over for myself, and a soak would probably do you some good." Then she noticed Greg still standing a few feet away, awkwardly studying the floorboards.

"Here, I'm sorry," she said, taking a flustered step back. "You'll want a turn with him, too."

Without missing a beat, Greg looked up and admitted, "I want a turn with both of you, actually."

"Oh? Oh. _Oh_." Molly raised her gaze to Mycroft's and he appeared to be supremely unsurprised. He looked at her pointedly and wrinkled his brow in the facial equivalent of a shrug. So long as Mycroft didn't mind, she certainly had no protest. She had considered this as a possible eventuality the first time they'd met up in the Cloister Café, but it was no good to rush these things, especially since they had Mycroft in common. One wrong move could ruin everything, so it had seemed best to just wait and see. "Well, that's nigh impossible from this distance," she replied. She opened one side of the hug and reached for him. He was already crossing the floor and putting his arms around the pair.

* * *

><p>Greg settled himself on the edge of the tub where his lover sat surrounded by growing mounds of bubbles. Along with a scoop of Epsom salts, Molly squeezed more than half of Mycroft's body wash into the water as it thundered from the tap, insisting that bubbles were an extensively documented form of medical treatment. She continued as she recapped the bottle, "Besides, it makes you happy. Don't pretend it doesn't. Mycroft," suddenly serious, Molly waited until she had his eyes, "don't pretend at all, okay? Not with us." She announced that she'd go see about dinner as she closed the door behind her.<p>

He rested his hand on Mycroft's freckled shoulder and leaned down to press a kiss to his temple. "Molly was really worried about you, a ghrá."

Mycroft cast him a knowing glance, "Was she?"

"Okay, yeah, we both were. With reason, it looks like." The bruises down the agent's side had already faded to green, but it must've hurt getting them. He was stretching for the shampoo, and from the face he was pulling, it was a no-go. Greg offered to help, and Myc agreed that maybe he should take it easy. After a minute, Greg asked "Are you okay with this?" and Mycroft understood that they weren't talking about his washing his hair.

"I think so," the younger man answered truthfully. "It had occurred to me that it would be an obvious solution. At any rate, I doubt I can throw stones."

"Well, if you've got stones, I want to see them." They both froze at Greg's earnest declaration, and dissolved into gales of laughter.

* * *

><p>He was dressed in the loosest pyjamas he owned. The sound of Molly singing along to U2's "Windows in the Skies" filtered down the hall as Mycroft followed Greg downstairs. He couldn't imagine ever saying so, but he liked following the copper. When he wasn't completely worn out (as his job often rendered him), Gregory was entirely comprised of athletic limbs and kinetic grace and barely contained playful boyish violence. Molly moved like a blind woman, half distracted memory, and half eldritch intuition. They were endlessly fascinating to watch.<p>

(And oh, they could _both_ cook. His caloric limit was in danger of being completely ignored.)

Molly pointed to a fruit platter and a glass of milk on the kitchen island, and he pulled up a barstool and picked at the chunks of melon and berries. "I read your file, and Anthea was right: we need to get your blood sugar up. Also, your full name is as bad as mine. Greg, can you put this in the oven for me, please?" She handed him a casserole dish full of chicken, potatoes, and green beans and gave him a quick kiss. He was closing the oven before he realised what had happened and spun around to stare at Molly, who explained, "I thought it would be better if we got past the initial bit of discomfort. Was it okay?"

Gregory took the floor in four strides and kissed their lady properly, and Mycroft felt a tension in his chest ease and move downward to warm his belly. He had been fairly confident that he could accept this development, maybe even find it arousing, but he had still expected to endure some measure of loneliness. Instead, as he watched his loves break apart with flushed and smiling faces and immediately turn to him, all he could feel was delighted contentment.

Hours later (after talking and dinner and a dose of paracetamol), he woke in the night to find that Greg was no longer behind him. Water was running in the en suite, and Mycroft knew that he was trying to lull himself back into sleep with a shower. Mycroft rolled onto his back into the warm place in the blankets that Greg had left. Molly shifted and curled closer into his uninjured side. When the older man came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, drowsily towelling off and stepping into his sleep-bottoms, he saw that his spot was now occupied.

Mycroft said, just above a whisper, "Gregory, there seems to be a weak spot in security on the far side of this bed. I wonder if you'd be willing to shore that up?"

Long after Greg's silver hair hit the other pillow, Mycroft lay awake smiling in the darkness. Never had a homecoming felt more like coming home.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: "A ghrá" is an Irish term of endearment. Basically, it means "my love."


	9. In Orbit

Maybe you will always be  
>Just a little out of reach<br>"Satellite"-Guster

* * *

><p>Sally Donovan had a nose for things that smelled just slightly off.<p>

Time was, Lestrade would have leapt at the chance to be in her shoes, rather than sending his protégé off without so much as a request to pass on a message to Molly Hooper. He had gone out of his way to visit St. Bart's personally when he could have easily passed it off to a junior detective, so it was really odd was that her boss had turned down an opportunity to see the little pathologist. Yet here Sally was, maintaining the chain of custody by accompanying Sherlock to the morgue for a look at a victim and to retrieve some test results. Lestrade was probably still leaned back in his chair pretending to act casual about not seeing the other half of a pairing that actually had a betting pool dedicated to it at the Yard.

Any time she had to walk with Sherlock, she stretched out her already lengthy stride to keep up. There was nothing to be gained from reinforcing his apparent belief that everyone in the room should be following him, so she tried to stay- if not quite abreast- not directly behind his flapping coattails. This was why she didn't trip over him when they reached the mortuary and he wheeled about and started back toward the lift. As she pivoted to follow, she spotted the problem: Molly wasn't in the morgue, and Sherlock wouldn't truck with anyone else. Or maybe none of the others would work with him.

Imagine that.

By the time she realised that the great berk was stalking through the locker room and into the showers of the teaching hospital, it was too late to stop his momentum. All she could do was exactly what people always did around Sherlock Holmes: trail after him, look baffled, and attempt to put out the fires. Damn it all.

Molly was mostly covered, at least. She was zipping up her jeans, her wet hair trailing damp streaks across her blue athletic bra, and she started when they came in.

Sherlock accused "You're not where you belong."

"Well, that's two of us, then," the doctor rejoined as she pulled a dark green cotton shirt down over her head. She sounded tired, but the side of Sally's mouth quirked up at her response.

She was tying the tails of a hugely oversized plaid button-up around her waist when Sherlock spoke again, snidely, "The early nineties just keep happening to you, don't they?"

Molly's chin came up quick, and there were unshed tears in her eyes. To Sally's surprise, Sherlock already looked contrite. "Not today, boyo. This really isn't a good time," she waved to silence him as she continued, "No, I know you didn't mean it, but you need to listen to how things sound before you say them. And if you're here to ask me for a favour that will require me putting my scrubs back on, I will cry. On you."

In a small, tight voice he said, "Please refrain? I don't think you need to change clothes, I just need you to pull someone out and pass along some lab work."

Molly was rolling her hair up into a high bun and casting about. Sherlock must have figured out what the woman was searching for, because he reached over and held out a paperclip. She unfolded it with her teeth and used it to pin her hair in place. "In all seriousness, when this case is solved, we should go shopping," he offered, and she let out a chuckle.

"Yeah, it might be time. My clothes are mostly serviceable and they fit okay, but now that I think about it, I do still have a jumper or two from uni that have earned retirement." She sat on the bench to slide her socks on. "Are you here for the kid?" she asked quietly, addressing both of them now.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and the sergeant heard several answers in that word.

Molly pulled a pained face as she stepped into her trainers and headed for the door with her used scrubs and her shower supplies. "When you find whoever's responsible, you needn't be too gentle."

Sherlock looked to Donovan, and for once, they were on the same page. She'd been first on the scene for this one. She was too good at her job to be anything but professional, but she could certainly relate to the feeling. It had been brutal.

The pathologist had just risen somewhat in Sally's opinion. She'd effectively cowed Sherlock's attitude, but there was more to it than that. It wasn't so much that she had underestimated Molly, because she'd never really considered her much at all, beyond her clear competency and her pleasant manner. But the more she thought about it, she couldn't see why her boss hadn't made a move yet.

As they went back down to the mortuary, Sally formulated an idea.

* * *

><p>Greg marvelled at how some people could be completely different in their private lives to how they acted at work. No one embodied this more than the man stretched out on the couch. As far as his demeanour was concerned, Mycroft was always on the clock if he wasn't at home. The detective felt pretty chuffed to be allowed to see this man with his guard down. Mycroft was making an off-colour aside at the expense of David Starkey's wording. They had just started the second episode of the documentary series, and it was looking like another hour of their resident genius correcting the facts and all three of them adding commentary. His fingers itched for a pencil. Molly watched as he got up from his chair, her face still alight from Mycroft's joke.<p>

On a whim, Greg had tossed his new sketchbook into his satchel and brought it along. The hardest part about committing a person to lines on a page was trying to capture a picture of them in your mind, because people move. If someone posed for a portrait, they came out looking bored or unnatural, so it was best to just let them shift around. Greg had an entire box full of odd bits of paper, napkins, and the backs of receipts on which he'd tried to adequately depict his little boy over the years. His son was more of a moving target than most could claim, so he'd never got it right yet. The feelings there were too big for the tools he had to express them anyway, but he'd keep trying. He'd never been permitted to sketch Mycroft before. He had an idea that this wasn't going to come out satisfactorily no matter what he did, but the artist doesn't choose the subject.

Mycroft looked over as he sat back down and began unpacking what he needed, and his expression gave away his sudden apprehension. "It's all right, sugar-roux," Greg told him, winking. "We can burn it later, but I want to draw you." His lover turned back to the screen in tacit agreement, but he didn't argue with the narrator for long minutes. While he waited for Myc to relax again, he started with the long sofa and Molly Hooper.

She was soft and casual in a calf-length navy blue dress with tiny tan flowers. Her feet were bare and he could see her toenails were painted, just as they had been last week when Mycroft had come home safe and they'd all slept cuddled together. He puzzled for a second over why her fingernails were never done the same way, and then realised that though she wore gloves, she still worked with her hands. Nail polish didn't seem to last that long.

From what he'd put together from their stories, she and Mycroft had both managed to confound the other's defences from the start while still keeping up appearances. Greg had liked Molly rather a lot before, but it wasn't until these last few months that he'd really gotten to know who she was when she wasn't in scrubs. Beyond his own fondness, he was aware that Mycroft was more at ease when she was around, and he enjoyed seeing the normally tense agent unwind. It was difficult to stress much around the quiet doctor. He wondered what effect he wrought on Mycroft's moods, and in his usual way, as soon as the question was in his head it was out of his mouth. "What's he like when I'm not here?"

Molly answered immediately, "He's less playful," in a way that made him think she'd already been riding his train of thought. Perhaps she had.

He passed along his own observations while their partner rolled his eyes indulgently, then he said to her, "So, Donovan is trying to set us up."

"I gathered. It's meant to be a blind date," she elaborated for Mycroft, who was looking up at her from her lap with interest, "but she gave me a fair hint."

"Where are you going?" Myc asked.

Molly answered, "We don't have to actually go anywhere. I don't think it'd be fair to the odd one out to just pass two of us off as a couple."

"Even as I'm the third person in this instance?"

"Especially because it's you, Mycroft." Molly met Greg's gaze and gave him a little smile. "We could still have dinner or something if you like, but if anyone asks we'd have to shrug it off. All or nothing, see?"

Greg thought about it while he sketched and shaded, and in the end he was impressed that Molly had reached that conclusion. Of the three of them, Mycroft was the least secure in the relationship, maybe because these sentiments were unexplored terrain for him. He would never say anything, but if Greg and Molly became an official item, Mycroft would think his position was diminished and quietly close himself off. The truth was, if the other two decided they'd be happier without Greg, he'd let them go. He suspected they all felt the same way, but Myc didn't seem to realise that it all hinged on him. Since Mycroft was the one insisting that his attachments stay under cover, they had no recourse but to keep every aspect secret, or watch it all fall apart.

The other man must have been waiting for him to finish, because as soon as he went to hold the paper up towards the lamp to make a final check, his sweetheart was there trying to get a glimpse. "No, it's rubbish, really. It's never as good as real life," Greg sighed as Myc pinned him with a glare and proceeded to study the drawing anyway. Molly came over and tilted her head to fix her perspective, and the taller man held it lower for her to see. Together, the subjects of the picture drank it in.

Molly was positively beaming at him. "Oh, you got his eyes right!" she exclaimed softly, and Mycroft turned those eyes to him, his expression one of naked astonishment. Suddenly, he didn't feel so disappointed in his work.

Mycroft whispered, "Does she really look at me like that?"

"We both do, honey. All the time."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: The documentary series is called _Monarchy_, and it's really informative. It's available on Netflix. The joke is actually rather dirty and as a direct result of Starkey's turn of phrase regarding the Vikings. Starkey would be appalled. The Vikings would probably think it was pretty funny.

If you're trying to keep track (bless you), _Blameless_ happens sometime during this chapter.


	10. Back-Pocket Secret

I'm broke but I'm happy  
>I'm poor but I'm kind<br>I'm short but I'm healthy, yeah  
>I'm high but I'm grounded<br>I'm sane but I'm overwhelmed  
>I'm lost but I'm hopeful, baby<br>"Hand in My Pocket"- Alanis Morissette

* * *

><p>"I'm not confident about paisley," Molly said. The dress was a simple cut, with a stretchy material that would make her look like she might one day aspire to curves. It even had the pockets that were a hard requirement to demand out of women's clothes. The paisley was light pink against darker pink and not garish at all, but she thought that she half-remembered someone saying how paisley was horrid. Not that she ever let fashion dictate her wardrobe when functionality and ease were paramount, but the entire shopping excursion was designed around the undeniable fact that the only articles of clothing that Molly had regularly replaced since reaching the end of her growth in secondary school were shoes and undergarments.<p>

Many of her articles of clothing had been bought for her by her dad in the days when he was still alive, before the doctor had found the late-stage lung cancer they would lose him to less than a month later. She had been so devastated by his death that it was a comfort to her to remember the occasion on which she had received each jumper, blouse, and pair of trousers. She still missed him, but it was less fierce now. It wasn't true what people told you. Life never got back to how it had been before, but as time passed, her gauge for what was normal had expanded to include the mild ache in her chest until she was able to remember her father without noticing the pain.

"You can at least try it on. Stop!" Sherlock continued as she reached for a pair of denims, "Under no circumstances. I consider it an execution of my fraternal duty to inform you, and hopefully my brother will appreciate what I'm doing for him here. Do you know what makes relaxed-fit jeans relaxed?"

"Chamomile?"

Sherlock groaned, "They remove the delineation between your bum and your legs. Whatever else can be said, you do have a perfectly acceptable backside."

"Um."

"Try those, the ones there with the higher rise. Ooh, flare leg. Can't say why, precisely, but you seem like the type for bell-bottoms."

"I can never tell if you're teasing me," Molly mumbled.

"Neither can I. Someone made a mistake here," the detective said, bemused. He held up another pair of trousers and indicated the front slash pockets, which were sewn shut.

Molly made a small dejected noise, long used to the cruelty of female fashion. "Nope, they made them that way on purpose."

Sherlock looked utterly offended. "Why the _hell_ would you make pockets, actual, ones, and then sew the whole thing up so they can't be used?"

"It's a simple fix. I have a seam-ripper for just this occasion." She saw his face, still so betrayed by the idea of false pockets, and gave him a quick flash of teeth that wasn't quite a smile. "Ostensibly, they do that so our things won't ruin the clean lines of our profiles or some such, though I don't think anyone really cares about that. It's really the patriarchy, wanting us to be dependent on purses. They fear what we could do with full use of both hands."

"What do you carry in there, anyway?"

She tossed the little bag to him, thin backpack straps flapping as it flew. "Have a look, then."

"What's- oh. Forgot you needed those. Keys, wallet, lip balm. That's sensible," he said at last, and she glanced back to see that he had opened up her little first aid kit. It contained plasters, a cough drop, a cinnamon candy, and an antibacterial moist towellette. There were single-use packets of paracetamol, an antihistamine, chewable aspirin, and ointment. There was even a small Kaltostat dressing and an epi-pen. It took up surprisingly little space, and it came in handy more than one might expect, especially riding public transit. The homeless of the city knew her route to work; it seemed the all the kids with skinned knees did, too. "Why do you have pennies in here?"

"For the ferryman, if all else fails. Come on, let me go pick out a hair clip before we hit the dressing room."

When they reached the hair accessory aisle, the detective was mystified again. "What are these little fiddly oddments? Like this?" He held up what appeared to be a Velcro-covered stick.

"I think it's for doing rolls, like French twists."

He squinted in concentration. "Is that the one up the back of your head? Oh god. I actually need to know all of this now." He pulled a serious expression and said, "All right. Teach me everything. Go."

She snorted, "Yes, let me impart thirty years of information in a condensed ten-minute lecture. Okay, elastics, that's easy. These tiny rubber bands- well, I think they're actually silicone now- they hurt if you're not very careful. Either avoid rubber and silicone altogether, or reserve them for the ends of braids. The cloth covered ones do the least damage, but they might fall out, especially while she's little. Her hair is still very fine. Headbands are a grand thing once she's a bit older, but check to be sure they don't put pressure behind her ears." She rattled off the different types of barrettes and clips, and he absorbed all of the new data silently until she got to combs.

"How do these even work? I was under the impression that the point of a comb is to go through one's hair, not hold it in place."

Molly picked out a tortoiseshell comb for herself and put the label in her ransacked purse for the clerk to ring up later. "Like so." She twisted her long hair up into a bun, then flipped it under. She slid the comb into the tuck. "Think of it as several pins, all working together. Elanor's a bit young to need one for a while yet. How is she?"

"She's teething," Sherlock muttered, "John was up with her all night. He said it was his turn, which doesn't make any sense because it's not like any of us are sleeping well with her so miserable. I got up and he was half asleep. He said, 'Hold your daughter for a minute,' and went to use the loo. So. Is it too soon to ask John to marry me?"

As usual, Molly's head spun a bit from Sherlock's rapid subject changes. He'd never quite got the hang of conversation. Once she had her bearings, she handed the question back to him. "Do you think it is?"

"No," he said quietly, "I really don't. We've been together for five years now. We've shared a flat and a life, and now a bed and a baby. Honestly, having sex hasn't changed much. We were always this, we just didn't have a name for it."

Molly forgot to breathe for a moment over how sweet that notion was. She hugged her friend so he wouldn't see her tearing up and get exasperated with her. "I don't think it's too soon. If anything, it's overdue."

* * *

><p>John was not having a successful day. Elanor had started feeling better this morning, and they had all managed to get some decent rest. Then this evening, Greg Lestrade had shown up to try and collect Sherlock and himself for a case, but the detective was out. The real trouble was, so was Mrs. Hudson. Even once Sherlock came back, John was stuck here with the baby and unable to accompany his boyfriend on their case. As much as he adored his little girl, he could definitely stand to stretch his legs for more than a shift at the clinic. He was starting to feel a bit cooped-up. Then Sherlock brought home the shopping and Molly Hooper, Elanor's second-favourite minder and the willing solution to their current problem.<p>

Molly looked different. John had been vaguely aware that Molly had some visually pleasing attributes, but it was never so apparent since that aborted Christmas party. Now, though, she had some new trousers on. They were certainly flattering.

Greg seemed to agree. "Sweetheart, have pity."

"I'm sure I will," she said with a sly grin that John had never seen on Molly's face before. The only consolation was that Sherlock looked as confused as he was.

"Wait," John said, and then he realised there was no way to ask what was going on with matters that were exactly none of his business. "Ah. Uh. Carry on."

"No, do wait. Molly, I thought you were-" Sherlock paused, "Nope, John was right. Nevermind."

Greg and Molly looked mildly uncomfortable. After a minute, Molly spoke up, "I am, in fact, seeing Mycroft."

"Ah, okay," John nodded gratefully. Sherlock was still puzzled.

"So am I," Greg supplied. Now the detective and his blogger traded expressions.

"And in theory, we're dating each other too," Molly finished. "Sally Donovan has got us reservations someplace very nice, and we have to pretend we don't enjoy it so we don't blow our cover, because Mycroft is paranoid and thrives on complications."

John blinked. That... was interesting. He opened his mouth to ask if everyone was happy with that arrangement. Then he saw their faces, and he had his answer. "We could start a club."

Greg shrugged helplessly, "Or a support group."

"I guess I really shall have to exert some effort and learn your name," Sherlock muttered.

* * *

><p>The chapter title is from "Wunderkind," another Alanis Morissette song.<p> 


	11. Readers and Writers

You live your life through these open doors  
>And I don't know who you are to me<br>And I don't know what you want from me  
>"Thumper"- Mumford &amp; Sons<p>

* * *

><p>Greg Lestrade was amused to discover that his idea of a support group found some purchase with the other two. Having been subjected to double exposure, Molly had picked up the Holmes' thought-patterns quickly. As it turned out, she had a passing knowledge of the family history, and Greg remembered her confiding her enjoyment of stories before all this began. He was beset by bookworms on all sides.<p>

His son, despite being an able little athlete when he felt well enough to run around, was even more enthusiastic about books. On weekends when he had his boy, they spent two solid days sprinting into- and through- libraries, museums, and bookshops. Trying to keep Ward in reading material was somehow more of a challenge than it was to make sure he wasn't busting out of his clothes and trainers. Once, he'd found his seven-year-old reading the manual for Greg's electric razor for want of a good story. It made presents easy to wrap, all straight edges and corners. Greg was already saving up for an ebook reader with a very sturdy case for the boy's birthday gift, and it was his turn to host his party in early August. Christmas would be rough this year, because Ward would be with his mother and her family in Dorset. Distance was the hardest thing about divorce, but the little boy was the only reason that the decade spent off-and-on with Anna wasn't a waste of time. Ward had been a bright spot in a sea of dark years. If it hadn't been for him, Greg probably wouldn't have kept working to hold his marriage together after the third breach of trust, especially since the downtimes from his wandering wife were spent with Mycroft.

He had avoided asking Molly out after his divorce because he, like everyone else, had been allowed-and even gently encouraged- to believe that the pathologist was caught up in Sherlock Holmes. For someone who valued the truth so highly, she was a daft hand at lying by omission. For him, an emotionally distant Mycroft had been still far more enjoyable than no Mycroft at all, and a much safer bet than a woman who seemed to actively want someone else. He'd had that before. By the time he'd been corrected, they had already begun building the frame for the rewarding mess they found themselves in now, double-bluffing their way through their first date.

After, they were meeting up at Mycroft's house to loop him in. Under Molly's care, his rib had healed up well in the month since he'd been home. He had steadfastly refused to take anything stronger than paracetamol. As a result, he'd been distracted by pain for the first week and only his bloody-minded determination to force himself to breathe deeply had kept him from ending up with pneumonia. It had bothered Greg to see the younger man hurting, but Molly had reminded him that after Sherlock's problem with opiates, it was natural for Mycroft to draw a thick line between himself and the risk presented by those addictive substances. Having their third injured had taken much of their focus.

Dinner had been absolutely wonderful, and it was a struggle to pretend that he wasn't having fun, trading stories with Molly Hooper. Once she relaxed, she was a delight. As they negotiated desert, Greg realised that she'd been labouring under the weight of a secret no one had guessed the whole time he'd known her. He knew just how that felt; being in love with Mycroft when he acted completely indifferent to you was a hard thing to come to terms with, but it had sat ill on her shoulders. That she'd borne it stoically, until she was ready to set it down on her own terms, tipped the balance. He was struck by the idea that he should mark the moment, which seemed a bit foolish as he had the sense that he'd been feeling this way for some time. Still, they had both spent far too long in love and afraid to say anything. That intrigue and longing had suited what he had with Mycroft, but he decided it was important to be as transparent in this as possible.

Which was a relief, since he was already speaking, "Probably too soon to say it, but I'm thinking it."

"I don't reckon I'm all that far behind you." She bit her lip and smiled up at him from across the table.

* * *

><p>Mycroft was not making a Venn diagram. That would involve drawing the circles, and he would have to get up from his chair. He insisted to himself that he was not doing so, and that he wasn't even sure where his old geometry compass was (if Schrödinger could have a cat that was both alive and dead, then he could have a tool that may or may not be on the right side of his second desk drawer next to the slide ruler). Besides, the top and bottom lines inside the circles would be unusable, and the middle section wouldn't be big enough. It never was. Things were frequently more alike than not.<p>

Instead, he was making columns. The centre column was already half again as long as the lists that flanked it. The two subjects up for comparison were his lovers.

He realised this would hardly fit a widely accepted definition of _romantic_, but for him, it was absolutely essential. In order to know anything, one must first understand oneself, and some seditious corner of his otherwise steady heart had snuck out of a window in the dead of night and eloped. (Twice.) Not that this was a problem, but it had come as such a shock both times that he felt remiss in having overlooked the warning signs. True, it had been close to a decade since he had fallen for Molly and (probably) nearly as long for Gregory, but he'd spent all but the last handful of months studiously ignoring it. Since his darlings were out together on this summer evening, it was a good time to take inventory.

It seemed pretty evident to Mycroft, just based on the data, that he had a type. Greg (physical, assured, dynamic) and Molly (spiritual, cautious, fluid) were remarkably similar once one dug past the obvious differences. Most of the traits he had listed had initially been deemed a fit for one or the other, but his pen would usually veer off and the word would end up in the middle. He truly was making an effort to be objective and fair, but the worst vices he could pick out were Gregory's quick temper and Molly's sentimentalism, and he had both of those flaws himself. The combination equated to a tendency toward forming grudges over nothing very substantial, but as long as there was awareness, there was an opportunity for revision.

His work schedule had been easy enough to adjust. Oddly, his injuries had settled the matter in one move. Because he'd initially underestimated how badly he'd been hurt, Mycroft had been forced to leave at a reasonable hour for the entire first week after his return, and thereafter no one had so much as blinked when he simply continued to do so. There were still matters that required his attention after business hours, but if anyone had noticed that he now handled these things almost entirely by phone, they kept their own counsel. One or both of his sweethearts had found an excuse to show up nearly every evening, and he was glad of it. Since the option had been presented, he no longer had to divide his time to have them close, and he found that being around both of them together was preferable. They worked well as a trio, and he expected that this would translate to other areas, if he could ever convince them that he was fully mended. There had been a dreadful embargo on most activities until his rib was better, and he hadn't succeeded in fooling either of them. They hadn't progressed with the physical aspect of their own relationship beyond some enthusiastic kissing. When asked, Gregory had admitted that they were waiting for him.

Mycroft was beyond ready for his convalescence to end. He had been a little confused at first that his partners insisted on keeping him company when he wasn't hale enough for anything more strenuous. He knew he was loved, and he was beginning to realise how much, but the wider implications still caught him flat-footed. He couldn't help but worry; if he didn't know what he'd done to gain the affections of these two people, then how could he possibly ensure that he continued to do it? Now they would have each other, too; while that was fair and had the potential to make an already marvellous arrangement even more satisfying, he could see another path for them that would take them slowly away from his door.

* * *

><p>They had barely arrived when Greg suggested the trio sit outside under the night sky and talk for a bit. Mycroft had gamely nabbed a six-pack from the pantry on their way out the kitchen door, and from there they had climbed to the upper level of the deck Molly had left her sandals by the front door when their taxi had dropped her and Greg at Mycroft's front gate, so now she dangled her bare feet through the railing and off the porch. She satisfied herself that the stars were still overhead, and turned her attention to the garden below. The verbena was blooming, and she inhaled the lemon scent. Mycroft must have paid a fortune for a garden so large, and she thought the privacy was worth every penny.<p>

Greg offered her an opened bottle and plunked down next to her. It was a warm evening, and as Mycroft tossed his light suit jacket up over the railing above their heads, his little notebook slid out and Greg reached over and caught it in mid-air with an enviable ease. It had opened, and she spotted her name in his tiny script before she could avert her gaze.

Molly leaned back onto her elbows and addressed Mycroft. "We're in your booklet?"

"It's only scribbles. You're welcome to look, but please rein in your laughter until I'm not present."

At first glance, it appeared to be a contrast study. When she and Greg were done reading it, she had to compose herself before turning back. Mycroft hadn't moved, and he looked like a man preparing to meet his doom. "Is there more?"

He waved her on in a way that indicated his hope that they would get it over with quickly. "There's nothing in there that poses a threat to national security, and you've both signed the Official Secrets Act anyway. Flip through, since you must, and then let us never speak of this again."

They took him at his word, and started at the beginning. When they reached the pages they had seen first, Molly met Greg's eyes over the notepad. She set the book in her lap and asked the book's owner, "How long have you been writing poetry?"

"I did request that you not mock me while I'm here," Mycroft said stiffly.

The other man held a hand up. "We're not taking it out of you, _mon chou_. It's- well, it's touching, actually."

Molly frowned, "Please, will you sit?" Once he had arrayed himself on her other side, she put her arm around him and gave his hunched form a squeeze. "Listen, we don't mean to tease. If I have this sorted right, you've been scratching out what amounts to free-form poems for some time."

"They aren't," Mycroft persisted, "they're just lists and the occasional paragraph."

"The whole point of poetry is to write what you feel. I believe what you have in that notebook qualifies rather neatly."

Greg spoke up again, "What you've written- that's how you see us?"

When Mycroft nodded, his discomfort was still evident in the tightness around his eyes, so Molly leaned over and kissed him soundly until she felt him smile against her lips. She pulled back enough to drink in the sight. "It's beautiful. _You're_ beautiful, and we love you so dearly." Greg squeezed her free hand in silent agreement, and held on. Encouraged, she continued, speaking slowly as she picked her words with care. "The way you write, though, gives the impression that you're operating under the fear that this is all transient."

"Yeah, like you're worried that you need to get all the lines down before we move. Baby, we're not going anywhere unless you want us to, and then you'll have to work to shake us."

Molly laughed, "More so now. Really," she indicated the little book in her lap, "it is lovely."

"Ah, that's just the subject matter," Mycroft mumbled. He moved an escaped lock of her hair back from her face and smoothed his thumb over her cheek.

Greg reached behind her to clap Mycroft on the shoulder, and his fingers slid up to stroke the back of the younger man's neck. "_That_ I can definitely relate to. It was no hardship drawing the pair of you." He grinned at her.

"I think you two are very handsome together."

"Well, you're both half-correct," Mycroft said wryly, "but I have the finest view." He lowered his tone. "Or I should very much like to."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: "Mon chou" is French. It literally means "my cabbage," but may also refer to a kind of pastry. The French have some awesome pet names.


	12. Boxes and Rings

And in the middle of the night  
>I may watch you go<br>There'll be no value in the strength  
>Of walls that I have grown<br>There'll be no comfort in the shade  
>Of the shadows thrown<br>You may not trust the promises  
>Or the change I'll show<br>But I'd be yours if you'd be mine  
>"Lover of the Light"-Mumford &amp; Sons<p>

* * *

><p>Greg wasn't clear on whether he was still up or had dozed off and surfaced again, but the scenery was the same either way: he was spread out in one of his favourite places, listening to the soft sounds of Mycroft and Molly dreaming while he stared up at the sheer cobalt canopy.<p>

Much like the man himself, Mycroft's bed was decadent luxury agreeably wedded to the eminently practical. Beneath the raised platform that supported the oversized mattress was a collection of drawers, cubbies, and cabinets that fit together to create an ingenious storage space. Years ago, he'd got curious enough to take a peek. After he'd opened a cabinet to find a drawer with another drawer behind it, he'd realised that Mycroft slept on a puzzle-box full of old files and good shoes. The headboard was much the same way done tiny, and there were recessed lamps with adjustable settings. Most of the foot of the bed was a compartment with a hinged lid which held a spare blanket on top of the false bottom; the rest was cut away to allow access from the short set of steps. The sheets were old linen, and they ghosted across his skin when he moved between them. The pillows were soft and deep. The best features, though, were the woman with her head on his shoulder and the man who lay pressed against her. Mycroft had drifted off while tracing lines over Greg's hip, with his face buried in Molly's hair and his arm around both of the people whose hearts he had ensnared. Sleep wasn't coming so easily for Greg, but he spent long minutes committing this peaceful sight to memory before he resolved to get up.

He slipped out of the bed, into a pair of knit bottoms and a dressing gown, and through the small door that led back to where the evening had begun. The light from the waxing moon cast a silver hue over the garden below, and the pond gleamed like a mirror.

He heard the door as his thumb found the striker wheel on his lighter. "Can't you sleep?" Molly ran her hand down his back as she sat next to him on the steps leading to the lower deck. _We need some chairs out here_, he mused.

"Not always," he sighed as he cupped his hands around the flame and bent to light up. "_You_ should, though."

"I must have a reason for being awake, or I wouldn't be," she answered, and it was both the silliest and most thoughtful rationalization of insomnia that he'd ever heard uttered. "Is anything bothering you?" she inquired with a nervous waver in her voice, and he looked at her.

She was wearing Mycroft's shirt, and his mind helpfully supplied the memory of tugging impatiently at that collar earlier, the younger man moaning into his mouth while Molly giggled and easily undid the buttons.

Now those nimble fingers were twisting together in her lap, and he covered her hands with one of his. "Dove, I don't think I could be upset about anything right now. I'm just wired, is all."

Tension drained from Molly's posture, "That's good, because this was one of the best nights in my not-inconsiderable experience."

"Oh... yeah?" It would have taken a lever to pry the grin off his face.

He watched the red tip of his cigarette glow brighter as he took another drag, and blew the smoke out slowly, letting it curl skyward at its own pace. He caught her watching him wistfully. "I thought you didn't approve of smoking."

"Well, not really, but I like the smell." She chuckled a little at his incredulous expression. Even _he_ hated the smell. She explained, "It reminds me of home. I grew up in my family's pub, and the whole place smelled like tobacco. My dad smoked all through my childhood. They found the cancer a year after he quit." She cringed as she caught the implication, "Oh God, sorry." Molly squeezed her eyes shut and looked in all ways completely disgusted with herself. When she heard him rumbling with laughter, she squinted and found an apologetic smile for him.

"It's all right; my mouth runs away with me, too," he assured her, and he kissed her to show he didn't mind. Then he kissed her because he wanted to, because he loved her, because it was almost June, because she tasted like good beer and sunshine and a bit like the man they'd left sleeping.

* * *

><p>Molly shouldn't have had time to daydream in-between patients, but the clinic in the shelter wasn't quite so busy now that summer was well underway. Cassie Ragavendran poked her head around the corner and asked, "Apple or cranberry juice?"<p>

"Cranberry, ta!" Molly sang out. Cassie waved off her thanks as she headed to the shelter's office, which housed the tiny fridge where volunteers kept their own supplies. The other woman was here with enough frequency to have a shelf. Molly gave a handful of hours to the shelter each month, and she would have done more if not for the emotional strain it caused. It was difficult enough treating the maladies of the local homeless community, but she fixed people up on tube platforms and sidewalks often enough to have grown accustomed to sending her patients on their way with a plaster, a prescription, and a prayer. What she truly dreaded was looking up one day to see her own eyes staring at her from her mother's weathered face.

Today, though, her mind was somewhere else entirely. Her thoughts were in Mycroft's bed, and she wished the rest of her was, too. There was something unbearably erotic about watching one man show the other how best to touch her, how to love her in between the kisses they shared across her primed body. Where Mycroft started slow and intense and built up to a searing crescendo, Greg began in a dizzying rush that ended on a sweet and gentle note. The pair of them together made for several hours of sustained glory.

_I really have got to focus_, she thought distractedly as she heard her young friend's footsteps scuffing back down the corridor.

Cassie tossed her a bottle as she sauntered into the room. Molly commented, "You got some sun!" as she cracked the lid and took a grateful sip.

"Spent all of Friday in Regent's Park, passing out leaflets and water. It was gorgeous out. I wasn't there to get a tan, but hey, it never hurts to pull double duty." Molly hoped that her sudden sputtering on her juice provided a plausible cover for the fierce blush now staining her cheeks. "Oh no, go down sideways?" her friend asked, concerned. It was just as well that Molly was still coughing too hard to answer.

* * *

><p>Mycroft should have known he was in trouble the first time he invited Gregory to his house. He'd offered because Greg had caught his wife with a police constable in his new office at the Yard's Christmas party, and his usual hotel was booked for the holidays.<p>

When he'd woken in the morning, he'd discovered that both his bed partner and his extra blanket were missing. He had finally found the policeman in the attic floor, watching snow fall outside the lead-glass windows.

_I can't keep him_. Mycroft had narrowly dodged an examination of why that thought left him cold, and instead devoted the rest of the morning to warming them both.

He had known that Gregory would go back to his wife. Time proved him right, but he hadn't guessed how quickly. Before the sun had set on Boxing Day, Anna had asked her husband to give her another chance and he'd gone, unaware that the person he was leaving wanted him to stay. The year that followed had been the longest stretch that Greg had lived under his own roof, owing mostly to the couple becoming a family. When Edward Lestrade had arrived (weeks before anyone expected him), the news had been bittersweet for Mycroft. He'd drawn comfort from his surety that Gregory would be a wonderful parent.

As predicted, he was. (What Mycroft had not dared to hope on that lonely August day, was that Gregory would be ringing him up the following December.)

Now, almost eight years later, the men sat side-by-side on the sofa and studied the screen of Greg's laptop. Mycroft wondered why his inspector thought he knew anything about ebooks or the equipment required to store and view them. "My knowledge is not as boundless as you imagine, dear fellow. I do have limits."

"I haven't seen your limits yet, baby," Greg said with a smirk. "I understand what all the specifications on the hardware mean for performance. I want to get Ward something sturdy that will still be relevant in a year. All I need from you is your opinion of the platforms."

Ah, software he understood. Mycroft waved at the choices. "Why not just get him a tablet?"

"Because," Greg blinked, "... wait. You've outrun me, haven't you?"

"All of the companies that produce proprietary readers also provide access to an account-holder's library via a free application. If you buy a tablet, you can download as many of those apps as you like."

"You've just avoided making a decision by picking _everything_."

"It's been working well for me lately," Mycroft pointed out.

* * *

><p>Sherlock staggered into the lab at St. Bart's, still half-dazed. "Molly! Molly, I- You're a woman."<p>

"Yep," she agreed without looking up.

"You're my best friend- besides John- and you're not a man." Why hadn't he considered this? He didn't think it actually mattered, but it still threw him even more off-kilter than he'd been.

Molly pushed back from the microscope rubbed her eyes. She gave him a concerned frown. "Sherlock, will I be needing a roadmap to find your point?"

"Well, I can't ask you to be my best man, then. Will you be my best woman?" No, that wasn't right either, but she was already agreeing. He figured it was close enough. John had called dibs on Garfield _Greg_ Lestrade, and if Mycroft would agree to officiate, the three would have an official excuse to be seen in public together. He could mark a good deed off of his list.

"Tell me everything!" she demanded excitedly, pointing at a stool.

"We were at Angelo's: I ordered shrimp alfredo, John and Elanor had the gnocchi. Hers was really more mush by the time she got it, Angelo puts it in a blender-"

"Don't actually tell me everything," his friend backtracked, having thought better of it by now.

Well, that was a relief. "I pulled out the ring and I asked him."

"And then he said yes," she prompted.

"No." At that, Molly's face fell. Before she could cry speak, he continued, "Then he pulled out a ring and asked me, too."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: I may be taking liberties with marriage procedure in the UK. My research shows that only a government official can conduct the ceremony, but Mycroft is the government.


	13. Kitchens

I'll leave my window open  
>'Cause I'm too tired at night to call your name<br>Just know I'm right here hoping  
>That you'll come in with the rain<br>"Come In With The Rain"-Taylor Swift

* * *

><p>"It's only a summit, and unlikely to be dangerous to anything besides my sanity." The reassurance was belied by his anxious expression, but as Greg watched Mycroft glance between himself and Molly, he caught the corner of an idea: the politician wasn't nervous about going back into the field; he was only worried about their reaction. Greg, on the other hand, was concerned for Myc's safety. It would be his first foray out of London since his last diplomatic discussion had turned sour, and he couldn't imagine that any of them wanted a repeat of that.<p>

Molly shook herself a little and asked, "When do you leave?" as she handed the bowl of marinade to Greg. They had taken to cooking for Mycroft when they were in his home; he claimed that he was determined to keep his cook in the dark about how many people were actually eating, but Greg suspected that he'd been so willing to open his kitchen because he enjoyed the domesticity, and liked watching them. And it was a fine feeling to be seen by Mycroft Holmes.

Their scientist, as one would expect, was an able baker and excelled at dishes that one could wander away from until the timer dinged. She was less adventurous with deviating from recipes than he was, but she knew her herbs. Greg was better at things that needed time management, more salt, and hotter grease. They kept the three of them fed in between the cook's weekly visits.

Mycroft explained that his plane would depart on the following Monday morning. "The meetings will take up all of next week. We have some time until then, of course, but I thought I ought to let you know at once." He quirked his mouth to the side for an instant, unsure.

"I'm glad you did. Are you free this weekend?" Molly asked brightly. Greg knew some of her cheer was false, but he sympathised with her need to try for a brave face. From the way the corners of Myc's eyes were crinkling upwards, he appreciated it, too.

"I shall be at your disposal, Miss Hooper," Mycroft replied, and her smile grew genuine. The taller man turned to him and said, "You're terribly quiet, Gregory."

Greg took a minute and gathered his thoughts. "I wish you didn't have to go, but since someone has to do your job, I doubt there's anyone who could do it half as well."

Mycroft said, "Thank you for the endorsement; I'll work to earn it," before he cupped Greg's cheek and kissed him, slow and soft. They held each other for a moment after the kiss ended, and Greg spotted Molly grinning to herself as she cracked eggs into a bowl.

He mumbled against Mycroft's shoulder, "I do feel better knowing you're out there taking care of us. I won't say be careful, because there's probably times when you can't. So, be safe."

"That, I can manage."

* * *

><p>When Molly found Mycroft a few days later, he was in his kitchen frowning into the frosty air rolling out of the freezer. He was standing in the open doorway of the icebox for comfort as much as anything else, for it was far too warm. He had shed his waistcoat and jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. If he noticed her attention lingering for a moment on his arms, well, he had been taking in the shape of her legs while she lightly fanned her thighs with her printed skirt. The heat was good for something, at least.<p>

As a child, a fair complexion had engendered in him a wary mistrust of the warmer months, and an autumn birthday had made him impatient to see the back of the season. Today, Molly Hooper was peeling out of her blouse and coming to hug him in a sleeveless undershirt, sweat-dampened hair curling against his jaw when she stretched up to press a kiss to his collarbone, and he wanted the summer to last forever.

He gestured to the frozen zucchini casserole and chicken parmesan, "Have you any idea what you'd like for dinner?" Molly looked him in the eye and nodded slowly. He laughed.

"Tomorrow is the longest day of the year, and I get to spend it with you. Anything else is icing. Oh, speaking of," she ducked out from under his arm and out of the kitchen, returning a moment later with her purse and a box of homemade glazed muffins. "Berry, poppy seed, and banana nut. Also, this is for you," she proclaimed, handing him an MP3 player. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in bafflement, and she chewed on her lip, uncertain. "I, um. I put some songs on it that remind me of you. It's fine if you don't- there are muffins instead."

He weighed her (no longer customary) discomfort and mentally tallied how many times he'd heard her sing or quote lyrics and concluded that for this woman, such a gift signified more than its face value. "Molly," he spoke carefully, "you've made a mix tape for me?"

She rallied and said decisively, "Yes, I suppose I have."

He pressed play.

_I have a smile  
><em>_Stretched from ear to ear  
><em>_To see you walking down the __road_

"Oh, I left shuffle on! There's an order-" she stopped talking as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

After a moment, he realized that they were swaying gently to the music. He whispered, "Do you dance?" into her hair, and he discovered that she did as they fell into step. It seemed that she had been taught to follow by someone who was comfortable leading, but she moved like one who had been dancing alone for long enough to have developed a romance with the music in lieu of a partner. At last, Mycroft arrived at a conclusion, and let out (another) breath he hadn't noticed that he was holding. _She was as lonely as I, before this._ It had been easier to keep his feelings to himself while he'd believed that the people he loved had better options elsewhere. Molly had seemed happier with Tom (or even alone) than he'd supposed he could make her. Now the knowledge that had been slinking around the shadowy walls of his mind stepped fully into the light at last, and he understood what his darlings had been trying to tell him for all these months. It wasn't anything he'd said or done that had captured their fancy. Not how, but _who_.

Perhaps he said something (or maybe she just heard him anyway), but Molly searched his face as the last measures played, and nodded at what she found. "I don't quite trust it yet," he admitted.

She smiled softly, "That's all right. You will."

Their pace changed to adjust for the tempo of the new song, but they danced together just as effortlessly. When he realized that she was quietly singing along to the chorus of "Gone, Gone, Gone" more sadly than the music warranted, he knew what she needed to hear.

When the tune ended, he stepped away and stopped the music. He asked Molly to wait for a moment, and left the kitchen to switch on his own stereo. Mycroft found the disc he wanted, selected the fifth track, and was back to her as Van Morrison started singing.

_When that fog horn blows  
><em>_I will be coming home_

* * *

><p>Mycroft left them an assignment to be completed while he was away.<p>

"I can't believe you've never seen _Firefly_," Molly shook her head at Greg from where she was perched on his freshly-scrubbed worktop, "What are you doing with your life? It seems like the sort of programme you'd really like."

"Well, I guess we'll find out. What do you want on your popcorn?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"Whatever you prefer will be fine by me. I haven't found a topping I don't care for."

Greg handed her a stick of butter and pointed her to his spice rack. "I feel the same way. Impress me, rabbit. You're pretty good at that," he said with a wink. "Oh, you read a lot as a kid, right?"

She laughed, "Probably more than strictly necessary, yes."

"Got a question for you then, if you would?" Greg called over his shoulder, half distracted as he hunted through his cupboards. He'd found the jar of popcorn kernels, but the steamer basket was eluding him. "Can you name five books that you loved when you were about eight years old?"

"For Ward's tablet?" she puzzled over the question for a minute as she assembled the ingredients. "Okay, right. _The Hobbit_, obviously, and _Charlotte's Web_. _The Secret Garden_ was important. I adored _A Wrinkle in Time_, and it made me think. _The Wind in the Willows_ basically shaped me from the ground up." She ticked them off on her fingers, and turned off the flame under the butter. "I hope that helps. When's the party?"

"His birthday is the first of August, and it falls on a Saturday this year. I have just over a month to remember how to juggle."

Molly spun to face him, delighted. "Can you really?"

He took three oranges out of the basket on his table and launched them into the air. He was a bit rusty at first, but once he found a rhythm, it all came back to him. "Seems that way, yes," he said after a minute, and caught them.

"Will you teach me?"

"Absolutely, yeah."

* * *

><p>On Friday night, Molly smiled when she heard the rattle of her fire escape through the open window of the next room. A minute later, he peeked around the wall and spotted her. Mycroft hung his wet umbrella on the back of the folding step-stool where she was seated so it could drip on her kitchen tiles, and bent to place small kisses over her upturned face before finding her mouth at last. She smiled against his lips and stood up on the bottom step to make the reach easier, and laid her cheek on his shoulder when they broke apart. "I love you, and the kettle's just boiled."<p>

"Good news, all," he replied. "I rang Gregory on the way, and he's free tomorrow. You should come along too." He rubbed the back of her neck while he waited for her to raise her head and look at him, then he kissed her until she trembled in his arms.

"Can you stay tonight?"

In response, he lifted her, set her on her table, and showed her how much he'd missed her. By the time they remembered the tea, the water had gone cold, and they had to heat it again. They got distracted waiting for their cups to steep, and the tea had to be poured out the next morning before they went to meet Greg at Mycroft's house.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: The first song is "I Love You"-Sarah McLachlan, followed by "Gone, Gone, Gone"-Phillip Phillips. The one Mycroft plays for Molly is "Into the Mystic"-Van Morrison.  
>It made perfect sense to me that Molly would spend an hour arranging the songs in the order she wanted them heard, making sure to keep things from getting too heavy in the middle, and then leave shuffle on. :D Hope you enjoyed!<p> 


	14. Fathers, Sons, and Brothers

But I'll explain it all to the watchman's son,  
>I ain't ever lived a year better spent in love<br>"Babel"-Mumford & Sons

* * *

><p>"May I join you?" Mycroft asked quietly. Greg was slumped comfortably on his back in the new porch swing, watching smoke curl towards the underside of the upper deck above them.<p>

Gregory teased, "I don't know, you're a bit overdressed for this party," but he lifted his legs and Mycroft settled under them.

Greg offered the cigarette and Mycroft took a drag before passing it back, saying, "My lot, it seems. Though I think it beats the alternative of nudity." The older man was only wearing an undershirt and boxers as a concession to modesty in the frankly improbable chance that someone besides himself and Molly saw him, but Mycroft had dressed in pyjamas before coming to find his lover.

"I disagree, darling." Gregory frowned at his cigarette and muttered, "I really should quit these," before taking another puff.

"You only smoke low-tar. In retrospect, that may be how my brother initially deduced that our connection ran deeper than mutual concern for him. I'm surprised that he didn't announce it to the world. Sentiment has mellowed him," he couldn't seem to make that last sound a disdainful as he wanted. _Maybe it applies to me, too_.

"I have to throw John a stag do. I gathered the last one wasn't so great. Molly said that Sherlock asked her for advice about alcohol intake, but John told me that he went behind him and spiked their drinks." Greg smirked, then his face fell. He gasped, "Oh no, Molly is Sherlock's- what- best maid? If she plans a party, it'll be the two of them nitpicking _Silent Witness_, and end in a therapy session."

Mycroft smiled a bit at the thought, but said, "Have mercy on us all then, and help her."

"It was already going to be a trial having a decent rave-up that soon after Christmas, and you want me to handle _two_ of them?"

Sherlock, who had asked Mycroft to officiate the ceremony via text message at four in the morning, had explained that they wanted to marry on the anniversary of the day they'd met. Since that was at the end of January, it didn't leave anyone much time for waffling. Mycroft wondered if this was by design: now that his brother had John, he appeared determined to secure the man permanently to his side. "They have so many mutual friends; would it not be more sensible to simply combine the celebrations? And Molly will happily do too much, given the opportunity."

Greg nodded, "She worries me sometimes. It's a wonder she hasn't burned out, running the way she does."

"She certainly knows her limits, she sees them so often. I'm afraid I abused her kindness early in our association. Perhaps I still do. We're fortunate to have her."

"Yeah, very."

* * *

><p>It had never been this bad before.<p>

They were aware that Ward's health wasn't the best, but then Greg and Anna had been worried about him since they had realised- while arguing- that they were expecting. When he'd arrived more than four weeks before his due date, tiny but loud, the Lestrade parents had set aside their irreconcilable similarities in favour of fussing over him. Each time Greg left home, it was to give his temper room to breathe so his little boy didn't inherit it; and when he reconciled and returned, it was less the hope that Anna would be faithful that kept him coming back, and more his determination that his son would grow up knowing he had two parents that wanted him. That was more than Greg had been blessed with. So in the interest of acknowledging that he probably just coddled Ward- who was an easier target for anxiety than his own failing marriage- Greg ignored a few things that he should have noticed.

He'd rung Anna, but she was at a conference in Belfast this weekend. She'd found a seat on an early flight, but the morning was a long way off and he couldn't smoke or draw or even think around the frantic pound of _Ward, Ward_ in time with the sound of his blood in his ears. He needed to get his son checked out, and to calm down before they both needed a doctor. He could solve all of this with a phone call.

He normally hesitated to ask Molly for anything, because her most admirable quality was also her greatest flaw: she was far too generous with her time, her energy, her_self_. He'd had this discussion just a couple of weeks ago, as he and Mycroft had passed a cigarette back and forth in the small hours of the morning on his porch swing. But this was his _child_, and the only other doctor he knew was probably busy putting his own to bed.

She answered on the third ring, voice both thick and breathy, and he asked, "Sorry, did I wake you, honey?"

"Ah, no, we weren't asleep."

_Oh_. "Then I really am sorry."

He could hear Myc chuckling and the wry grin in Molly's voice when she replied. "It's fine, how was the birthday party? Wait," she said, suddenly focused, "what's happened? You don't sound right."

"Ward's pretty ill. I called the other kids' parents, and everyone else is fine, except for sugar drop. I-" he broke off. He blew out a breath and tried again. "Is there any way-"

He was startled by Mycroft on the other end of the line. "Gregory, she's already redressed and gone to find her shoes. We'll be right there. Hold on."

* * *

><p>When Greg answered the door to his flat, Mycroft was glad they'd come. He looked wrecked, jumpy even as he moved down the hallway to the boy's room. "I gave him milk of magnesia, but he couldn't keep it down. 'Course, that's my usual response to the stuff, too. He's been to the loo four times in the last two hours. I guess it kind of slid on past us, but now that I think of it, this sort of thing has been going on for almost a year. Not like tonight, though."<p>

There were fairy lights tacked to the ceiling and posters of Bilbo's map to Erebor and the Yellow Submarine, and he felt an immediate kinship. The room was further papered in drawings of rocket ships and animals. Mycroft recognised Greg's handiwork, but unless the artist had gone through an abstract phase, the colour had been added by the occupant of the small bed in the corner.

Greg spoke gently to Ward, "Sunshine, these are my friends, Mycroft and Molly. Molly's a doctor. Can you sit up so she can take a look at you?"

"Nope," the boy whispered. "If I move, I'm going to throw up again."

Greg grabbed the bucket by the bed and held it at the ready. "I need you to try," he said apologetically, and helped him into a seated position. He patted the child's back when his prediction was proven true.

Molly knelt by the bed, and Ward peered at her with bleary eyes. He pointed to the bucket and said, "Sorry," in a miserable tone.

"No, puddle-duck, that's all right," she assured him and began digging through her supplies. He'd helped Molly raid his medicine cabinet before leaving his house, and they had quickly agreed that Pepto-Bismol was easier to take; maybe it would sit better than the milk of magnesia had done. While she measured out a small dose, Mycroft studied the little boy from where he stood in the doorway. He had never seen him in person before, and CCTV and Gregory's proudly displayed photographs and sketches didn't do justice to how similar the son was to his father. Mycroft noticed Ward blinking owlishly at him.

He came into the room and bowed slightly, "I regret to make your acquaintance under these circumstances, but it is an honour to meet you, Master Lestrade."

Ward flashed him a weak smile.

* * *

><p>They sat in the living room while they let his stomach settle, and Molly reviewed out loud as much for her own benefit as Greg's. "It's more than nausea or indigestion. He says his stomach hurts, but not where his appendix is. You indicated that this was ongoing?"<p>

"Maybe, yeah. He's been having some discomfort for a while. Anna said she mentioned it to the paediatrician when he got his jabs, but they were really busy and the doc basically said it was normal for kids to have sensitive stomachs and to try switching him to soy milk. It didn't seem to help, so we let him go back to regular after a month."

She was starting to formulate an idea, but she didn't like the sound of it much. "Has anything else seemed odd?"

Greg wrinkled his brow and answered, "Well, he started having headaches a couple of months back, but we found out he needed reading glasses, and he hasn't complained about it since. He's a trooper, though; it might still be bothering him. And there is something," Greg shrugged, "I don't know if it's related. He's always been a bit smaller than other boys his age, but I saw his mates today. They've all sprouted up. Ward is growing, but not so quick."

Mycroft asked, "What did he eat?" before she could, and Greg was ready with an answer.

"Well, Molly made the cake, and he had a bit more ice cream than he thinks I know about. They all stuffed themselves with pizza and breadsticks- once they were done using them as lightsabers, of course." He must have seen her face. "What?"

"This is extremely preliminary. I've barely checked him over, and-"

"Moelwyn Hooper, stop doubting yourself and tell the man what's wrong with his son," Mycroft said, tense and quiet.

She took a breath, "From what I'm hearing, I'd guess he has gluten intolerance. I think you should have him tested for Celiac's Disease."

Greg crumpled inward. This was the part of her job she hated. She had avoided much of the risk by going into pathology. There were days when she had to break the worst news, but usually by the time a friend or relative made their way to a morgue, they were already prepared for what they would find. She couldn't help but feel guilty, like she should have been able to spare Greg this hardship. She knew her sense of culpability was irrational, but the emotion got through the door before the logic did.

Mycroft put an arm around Greg and he leaned into the touch. Molly said quickly, "_If_ I'm right, this isn't a death sentence, and we don't know anything for sure without the test. I love you- we both do- and whatever the matter is, we'll take care of it. Hell," she said with a humourless chuckle, "it could still just be a series of coincidences and a nasty virus."

Greg didn't look like he believed that at all, and honestly, neither did she. "Gluten is in everything he likes, though. I might have to tell my kid that he can never have pizza again."

"Actually, that isn't so," Mycroft said. "There are more grains than wheat, rye, and barley."

Molly nodded her agreement. "I could technically run the test, but I'm not a specialist. I know an immunologist who owes me three wishes, let me send her a text," she pulled out her phone and tapped out a quick message as she continued, "and then I'll go see how Ward is faring."

When Molly brought him a cup of peppermint tea a few minutes later, Ward was reading a book on his new tablet, and she recognised the first chapter of _The Wind in the Willows_. He pushed his glasses back onto his head and tried a sip, considered, and took another. Without preamble, he said, "You love my dad," and pinned her with a piercing gaze so like Greg's that it surprised her into laughing.

Molly could only fudge the truth by omission. Even if that were not the case, she wouldn't lie to a child. Not about this. "Yes, I do." She realised that she'd said as much in the living room, and wondered how well her voice carried.

"That other one, Microsoft?"

She grinned and heard a snort behind her. She turned her head to find that her men had followed her. "He's Mycroft."

"Okay," the boy allowed, sceptically, "Well, I think he loves my dad, too."

"He's a lovable sort, your father."

* * *

><p>When Anna arrived with coffee, balloons, and a plush frog the next morning, Greg said quietly, "He's resting. We need to talk," and told her everything that Molly had said. She listened with dawning horror as she mentally connected their boy's worst bouts with bread consumption. He explained that Ward had an appointment to be tested later that morning.<p>

Then he told her the rest of it.

When he was done explaining that the person he'd spent their many downtimes with had offered to be much more than a bedwarmer at last, and how he'd ended up with the man's other partner as well, he'd been mildly impressed that his ex-wife's eyebrows could go so high.

"Greg," she said with disbelief, "I don't know about that. I mean, it's not really accepted, is it?"

Sharply defensive, he rejoined, "Neither is adultery. No," he said wincing at his own words, "I'm sorry I said that. I've had a rough night, and I'm sure you have too. Look, I think some of this trouble with Ward could've been mitigated if we communicated more, so I am. As for the other part: I made one phone call last night and they showed up. Molly spent ten minutes with Ward and was able to give me an idea of what we're looking at, and she managed to set up this test for us. Mycroft has the authority to muster an army faster than most Chinese restaurants can deliver an order of eggrolls. And they both care about our son."

She sighed. "Well, how could they help it? Okay."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: As usual, I did way more research than I needed. Thank you to my beta, Cornishrexmomma, who is a nurse in real life and was kind enough to fact-check me and offer some insight. I have been going back and forth with myself about including this plot since I was still writing _Undertow_!


	15. Tying Knots

'Cause hopelessly  
>Though hopeless we<br>Have so much to feel good about  
>"Good Life"- OneRepublic<p>

* * *

><p>When Mycroft had been a teen (all shiny-eyed and floppy-haired), he had gone away to university. He had instantly discovered that everyone there was far more disappointing that he had initially anticipated. <em>I could run this place<em>, he'd thought, sadly. Then he'd perked up, _and I will_. Before his first lecture, he'd reinvented his appearance, tamed his expressions, and mapped out a somewhat eclectic course plan for the next three years. This last, he gave to a boy in his dormitory who worked as a student assistant in the registrar's office. As he'd handed the envelope containing his academic dreams over, he explained that if the young man would be so good as to ensure that there was always a place for him in each of the classes listed, Mycroft would tutor him until he got top marks in everything and thereby kept his grants.

One of his more enjoyable lines of study took him into an anthropology seminar, but Mycroft (still young) had forgotten to set his alarm after a late study session. Desperately rushed, he had entirely skipped his morning toilet in a full-bore effort to reach his seat by the starting bell. As it came out, he had sat his final examination wearing a tartan bedsheet. Aside from his outlandishly rumpled appearance, he had deported himself in a manner that gave no indication that anything was amiss, and luckily, the essay question had asked that he describe a time when he had defied a social construct and the resultant reactions of his peers. (He had plenty of material to be getting on with.) By the end of the day, even his professors seemed convinced that he had done it on purpose, and he'd been filled with giddiness at having got away with such a daring endeavour.

He had more in common with his younger brother than anyone would believe.

Mycroft felt the same buoyancy today on the couch in Sherlock's flat, with Molly's hand tucked discretely in his and Gregory walking a path between them and where John was frowning at his computer. Here was the only place besides his home where he could relax his guard somewhat, as the occupants of this flat were aware of his relationships. He had noticed his brother's favoured symmetry in the wedding party and knew that the younger Holmes was doing them a favour (in his backward way) by providing the three with a cover story for meeting up with one another. Mycroft supposed actually helping to plan the wedding was a necessary sacrifice.

Currently on the table for debate was the form the reception should take. Sherlock had suggested offhandedly that they should try to provide entertainment, since the last wedding had involved an exciting crime. "We can't really count on anyone attempting a murder again. Maybe some costume party theme: we could force everyone to dress up like historical figures or hold a carnival."

John nixed that immediately, saying, "The last one didn't end so well."

Sherlock obligingly pretended to be invested in his own suggestion. "I thought you enjoyed that."

"The Chinese mafia tried to kill us."

Sherlock nodded emphatically, "Yes, that's what I mean."

"Why isn't there a circus in Piccadilly?" Molly wondered aloud, effectively diverting the conversation toward whimsy.

Greg was quick to point out that the whole thing would have to be done on highwires to avoid impeding the flow of traffic. "It makes the elephants nervous." The inspector winked at them. Molly's eyes were bright with mirth and the same bubbly excitement that Mycroft was trying to contain.

_To hell with it_, Mycroft thought with an inward shrug. "Clowns are heavily unionised, always demanding fresh rubber chickens and petrol allowances for their tiny cars," he deadpanned.

All eyes swivelled to him. His darlings had come to expect a certain quirky humour from him, but they rarely heard him be anything but bone dry in front of others. John looked at him like he'd never really seen him before, and was unsure if he should check for signs of a stroke.

From across the room, his little brother stared at him in recognition, and it dawned on Mycroft that he hadn't let Sherlock see this side of himself in decades.

* * *

><p>Ellie Goulding was singing as Molly wiggled her fingers into the nitrile gloves. This body had already had the external examination handled by a junior attendant. All she needed to do was perform the post-mortem on her. Name unknown, approximate age between fifty and fifty-five. <em>Ah, well. Put in some time, at least<em>. She folded the white sheet back.

Molly Hooper stood for a long time before she picked up the file and a pen. She scratched out the placeholder name and printed _Betina Rose Hooper_, and tugged the cover over her mother.

She couldn't say how she knew for certain; it had been almost thirty years since she'd seen the woman's face. The dark hair she recalled was streaked with white, and the rest of her was marked by age and hard living. Still.

With deliberate movements, she slid her phone out of her pocket as the Massive Attack song on her playlist gave way to Mycroft's innocuous ringtone.

"Is something the matter, Molly?"

She glanced up at the security camera in the corner of the morgue and gave a little wave. "You've already worked it out, haven't you?"

"My dear brother is upstairs in your lab, stealing an Erlenmeyer flask. He's been informed of the situation and is headed down to you. I will be there in eighteen minutes, after I make my excuses." There was a rustling and the squeak of a leather office chair, and she knew Mycroft was mobilising. "I'll call Greg on the way, though he's wrapping a crime scene at the moment. Ah, there's Sherlock." And there he was, indeed. Mycroft rang off as her friend reached her.

Sherlock looked terrified, though she couldn't tell if it was at the thought of losing a parent or the feelings that would follow. "Tell me what you need."

"I have no idea," she replied, and her voice sounded lost to her own ears. "I didn't," she swallowed a squeak before continuing, "didn't expect it to hurt." She pressed her palm to the spot on her ribs just over her heart and rubbed lightly like she could massage the tender place back to full health.

The detective waffled awkwardly for a second before giving up and hugging her. He still had a hand on her shoulder when Mycroft strode in, five minutes earlier than he'd projected, and enfolded her in his arms with a grateful nod to his brother. She finally let herself cry.

* * *

><p>In the slow hours of the night, Mycroft spoke quietly to Greg, and Greg listened. They exchanged information over Molly's sleeping form as they had before, though tonight the subject was sadder than their conversations usually were. The government agent had done some digging and was handing the baton to him for the legwork portion. He had tomorrow off of work and there was a little time before he met Anna and Ward at the nutritionist's office to discuss the parameters of the boy's diet. He would have to complete this quest on a countdown timer. Myc assured him that he had done a cost analysis and determined that this course of action was best, but Greg could only hope that- in the final tally- their endeavour healed more wounds than it caused.<p>

* * *

><p>All stories come to the same end eventually, but it was hard to close a book, nonetheless. True to Hooper form, Robby found reasons to feel better about the way things had settled. <em>At least we know where she is now<em>. Betina's ashes would be sprinkled alongside the branch off of the M4 where she and Reg had married, but for the moment, they were resting on the table along the far wall. His heart ached to remember his niece's muffled words, explaining that she'd stumbled across her mother's body at work, and needed him to come and officially confirm identification while she waited for the DNA test to spit out a positive she already felt certain was coming. "You knew her better than I did," she'd said, but Robby wasn't sure he had known Betina at all.

When he looked up from manning the drink table, he spotted his niece coming in, and was taken aback by the change in her. She appeared equally surprised to see him here in any capacity. He'd always been careful to give the child a positive view of her mother, but Robby had not got on well with Reg Hooper's wife. He knew that despite his efforts, his niece had picked up on that and deemed it understandable, considering what Betina had put his family through. His gaze found hers unerringly, and he smiled, proud of her as ever. "Hey, Cinnamon Girl. How are you holding up, there?"

"I think I'm all right," she answered slowly, checking to see if it was true. "So many of these guests are my friends. They never even met my mother."

"Funerals are for the living. That's you." He appraised her. "More than in past days, it seems to me. You look like you've been smiling more." The woman he'd helped to raise bit her lips, and he received the message. No questions today. Still, though he thought little and spoke less, Robby saw much.

* * *

><p>Molly spotted Greg arriving with a girl in her mid-teens. She cut a cool figure in a black leather jacket, but was vaguely uncomfortable in her dress, judging by the way she kept checking the hem of her skirt. There was a sombre dark blue streak in her shaggy blonde hair, and her small captive bead nose ring was a respectful gunmetal gray. She stuck by Greg, and he waved Molly out into the hall to meet them. She noticed Mycroft innocently trailing along toward the pair, and wasn't fooled.<p>

Greg started, "Molly, this is-" but the girl interrupted him, putting her hand out in greeting.

"Prudence Ophelia Maddox," she introduced herself.

Molly wondered if the teen was shivering from the damp autumn chill or nerves. She inhaled deeply and blew out her breath, smiling warmly as she found her own eyes in the face of this stranger. "She never did consider the consequences of names."

"Did you know?"

"No," Molly said, and Mycroft and Greg would both be hearing about that later, "not until I saw you, but I wondered. She used to ring me every few years, describe places she'd seen. I think I heard you in the background once, but I wasn't sure and..." Molly laughed, "I am so glad to meet you." Mycroft handed her a handkerchief, and she discovered that she was tearing up. "Was she better for you? Oh, no, sorry-"

The girl just smiled. "She tried. She hung around some, took me on adventures for the summer holidays and that. I hadn't heard from her in a while. Didn't know about you until your tame copper showed up."

Molly offered her the handkerchief, but the teen was already wiping her eyes on her scarf. "So what do I call you, Prudence Ophelia Maddox?"

"Whatever you like, really. There's a lot of nicknames there. Mom called me Prudelia, like it was all one word. She was the only one, and I guess I'll miss hearing it. You know what? Call me that. Yeah. I mean, if you don't mind. What do you want to call me?"

"Sister," Molly answered simply. Prudelia grinned, and Molly felt eminently grateful to her mother for what might have been the first time in her life.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: Originally, I wasn't sure if I was ever going to write this. This week, I had the experience of meeting family at a wake, so I decided to go ahead. I hope I did okay, as I'm still a bit spun out. Love you guys, thank you for reading.


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